A great hall of dancers
A hundred silhouettes breath frosty air upon a hundred window panes.
In halls where 100 dying men, entered but didn’t come out the same.
A hundred windows. One for each, their smoky ethos now in wispy peace.
Here their spirits wander, lost and absent of their senses.
Their whims and faint desires to simply be alive are consequences.
For in this hall the ghosts of men, are flaunted by a hundred sirens sung.
Never to find love, compassion or inhibition only spoken words where dead men’s heads now hung.
Tongues all knotted, eyes all vexed, death to whim and love as they were sincerely then perplexed.
In this hall they wined and danced. But stayed on best foot forward. Caught in each one’s glance.
For if to slip and fall and tumble down the west wing wall.
Where embers started burning, and fires found her lair.
They burried their mortality, like a psychopath who cares.
A plant that grew and bloomed within the grounds outside the hall now ash. For nothing is but fare.
For tragic loss was lived here once, when. No one feigned to learn.
Their songs of love and notes of joy, romantic and demure.
A hundred women and as many men spoke not a single word.
The fires that night, they roared and soared in skies of soot and black.
The smoke was seen as misty darkness in the muse as heaven could not have peered through the smoke to see them back.
Burling up with screams of pain as bones and skin did char.
A disco in the flames, The hotter then they were.
A hundred men and as many women trapped here in infernal alcazar.
Their jail rested be, for times uncertainty, they dance now in the ashes.
Their ghosts of misery, their wanting feet still stepping on the flames of matches.
And all the while the flame, that lit the driest wood, was nothing but the strike of death in his black of blackest hood.
For two hundred dancers set upon the ivory floor, the fire had its way and they danced again no more.
Now for nights eternal, they scream and reach and cry. For of the 200 saintly dancers 200 of them burned alive.
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Author:
RSM (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 25th, 2025 04:01
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
Offline)
Comments3
This has happened before and whether this poem is a tribute or a ,metaphor it matters not. It is ghostly and haunts the reader. Nicely worded with great images and vivid powerful words.
Thanks. I kind of lost the flow in the middle part but it's ok. At least people aren't going to say I used a chat bot to write it. Lol
A wonderful write although the images are haunting and sad they convey the story nicely, enjoyed the read
Ya maybe I will try some positivity in my writing again. Lol. A lot of my shit has been dark lately. Thanks again for the read and the compliment.
You are very welcome, Don't worry about what you right, we write as we feel at the time and of course that will vary.
Excellent write
Ty
You're welcome
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