As night seeps sunlight from the blood-red skies,

And clocks and gongs doth run to show times flies,

Then –He in royal raiment rising high,

And shouts the scrying witch: “the end is nigh!”

Candles flicker, splut, and writhe in pain,

As Nature holds its breath and waits again,

Watching victims fall down Death’s dark abyss,

Their lives exploding, scatt’ring sharp debris.

Death, in dreams’ depths burns the candles’ tallow,

Black and white, a joyous touch of yellow.

The screams, the wails, a visit, ethereal—

A dirge, lamenting voices funereal.
Where Death treads softly through the purple night,

Do bright flames wither—as Life’s dimming light.


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