What Happened Was Morbid

what happened was morbid ...

Lo, they did unmake his visage, not with blade alone,
but with the cruel mirth of fate’s fell hand.
A rictus, wide as grief, as hollow as the jest
that in dark halls is whispered ‘twixt wretched men.

Was it his own trembling grasp that traced the fault?
Or some wraith of malice, unseen but keen of touch?
The steel sang not as warriors’ swords do sing,
but in hush’d susurrus, a lull’d and mocking dirge.

The lips that spake of mercy found none,
but were rather parted in twain, a wound unsealing
as if laughter were forced where none did dwell,
a mirthless jest, carved deep and long.

And so his count’nance became the jest itself,
a scripture writ in flesh, a sermon none would heed.
No hand did reach to mend, nor voice to mourn,
for who doth grieve a thing so marred, so lost?

He knoweth not where first the laughter stirred—
was it in the chamber where his cries were naught?
Or in the quiet that followed, wherein he woke
to find his sorrow stretched from ear to ear?