Danse Macabre

Teeth clack like typists.
Cockroaches scatter at his match strike
Blood is in the air.

Knives of rust-fingers claw at the plaster
to lance the crack of bone.
There is child-meat behind the wall,
engorged with a frightened fluid.
Eyes of birthdays
are shot with star's arbor.

The clock coughs a dust of black moths.
It requests a drink for its sad minutes,
flakes of history, tracks
for the dust of churches
in decay,
for its sour prayers,
to a father.

Danse macabre.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.