Corpse Dance
Corpse Dance
In great mort the corpses
Jive to the air as the cyclone
Whistles through the trees above.
Partners begin to twain.
Decaying hands entwine together in mist of the death's dance.
Their ensemble, decomposing, whirl in the will-o'-the-wisp;
Giving the night a strange glow of elegance.
Soft and elusively the spirits souls flicker,
Down to a smoldering ember.
