The Dance of the Corpses

In cemeteries across the world, a great waltz ensues.

Husbands next to wives, lovers and the loved

Shrink and dry together in the great black ballroom.

Earth's pale melodies are slow, soft and slight

The gaunt midnight dancers waltzing away to bone.

The rigor mortis fingers of lean drawn men

Reach out to ashen cheeked girls

Yet they never reach, never touch.

Each waltz is solitary, each dancer alone in his corner

Yet together.

In one corner, side by side, as a worm through the soil

His last living thought, now embalmed, reaches for her.

(He died at 20, she at 80.)

And she has newly arrived on the dance floor

Her dress fresh, sweet, and pink.

And here he has waited, in his dusty blue suit, practicing.

No longer apart, the ballroom is theirs.

Now they carrion together in the dance of the corpses.