X. The Requiem That Refused to End

The candles are black, but they refuse to expire, Feeding on shadows and cold, liquid fire. The final amen is a knot in the throat, A heavy, lead weight in a sinking, stone boat. The clock has no hands, yet it ticks in the ear, A rhythmic, slow counting of every last fear.

The ceiling is folding, a shroud made of sky, Where the moon is a lid on a dead, silver eye. I reach for the morning, but the morning is gone, Drowned in a river that flows through the dawn. The notes of the organ are heavy as chains, Dragging the ghost of the blood through the veins.

“Stay,” says the silence, with a voice like a tomb, “For there is no exit from this velvet room.” The walls are all closing, a gentle, dark crush, In a world made of marble and iron and hush. The song is a circle, a needle in groove, Where the dancers are frozen and unable to move.

It plays in the marrow, it sings in the head, The beautiful, terrible psalm of the dead. The book is now closed, but the shadow will stay, For the requiem never will drift far away. You’ll wake and you’ll wonder if the dream was a lie, While the notes of the sorrow continue to cry.