Danse Putréfaction

Lo! 'Tis a night of foul decay
Where rot clings thick to bone
The air is rank with death's array
And flesh, long dead, has grown
The stage is set, but not for life
A show for cursed eyes
Where things that once were pure of strife  
Now crawl beneath the skies

The curtain lifts, yet nothing breathes
No pulse, no living form
Just hollow husks with tangled wreathes  
Of sinew, stiff and torn
Their skin, like wax, begins to sag
Their mouths gape open wide
But what commands them is no drag
It is the death inside

With brittle limbs they twist and turn
Each motion stiff and grim
Their faces sag, their sockets burn  
As light fades weak and dim
And from the corner, creeping near
It slithers into view
A monster born of all men’s fear
Of rot, and mold, and glue

Its form is gaunt, unnaturally long
Its ribs break through the skin
A jaw unhinged, grotesquely wrong
As bile drips within
Its eyes are pits of crawling things
Its breath is foul decay
A nightmare crowned with blackened wings  
That makes the dead obey

The actors twitch and slowly crack
Their bones begin to rot
A smell like sulfur, stinging black
That time itself forgot
The floor gives way to festering pools  
Of marrow turned to brine
While maggots feast as willing ghouls  
On what remains divine

It grins—its teeth a rotting mass
Each shard of bone decayed
It moves across the hall like glass  
That’s shattered, sharp, and frayed
Its hands, with nails of brittle dust
Caress the dying air
It leaves a trail of rancid rust  
As it crawls from layer to layer

The dead on stage begin to melt
Their skin peels off in strips
Their eyes dissolve, no pain is felt
Yet horror curls their lips
Abomination devours all it meets
Each corpse, each shred of life
It chews through marrow, flesh, and teeth
With long, slow, gnawing strife

The air itself begins to weep
The stench of rot remains
No light can pierce the endless creep  
Of flesh's slow refrain
And when it’s done, when all is gone
Maggots will pause and turn
It leaves behind a ghastly song
Where only rot can burn

The curtain falls, but still the stench  
Clings heavy in the air
A world left festering in the trench  
Of death’s unnatural glare
For every rot worms doth roam
No living thing can squirm
All will decay, all will grow cold
And bow before the food of worms