Gala Night
"Lo! tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
And angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and dressed in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres."
Indeed, it was a lovely day for death. The blood would paint the sky the colors of the sunset, would stain his soul. And Nebiros loved every moment of it. Now the time grew close for that dance of death, and that sick feeling of ecstasy formed a hard ball in the pit of his stomach.
Seeing all the blood thrilled him, seeing the bodies, strewn about like a child's neglected dolls there for his
(mere puppets they, who come and go)
pleasure.
It was like a scene from ancient cultures, how the people would offer human sacrifices to satisfy the gods. He would sacrifice those fools who came to him, and the Gate would open. And inside, it would be lovely, lovely chaos. He was so close, he could almost taste the blood, the sin.
"Master" and Nema stood behind him, smiling, thinking they were the respective lord and lady of the ball, that they would live to see the hell behind the Gate. Ah, how they were mistaken. He wanted to see them dead, see their pitiful little bodies drenched in blood.
(and seraphs sob at vermin fangs in human gore imbued)
But more than anything, he wanted to see Ren. The one he cared about more than anyone else. His perfect little doll.
He wanted to see Ren, dead in his arms.
That feeling of ecstasy made itself known yet again, and a smile that could only reveal a twisted mind behind it appeared on hid face, contorting the features that would normally seem so gentle, so kind.
His expression barely, if at all, changed as he watched his sacrifices fall, one by one, at Ren's hands. Hoping to please that god.
And finally, the god reached him. The smile (that crevice) widened. Would he, Nebiros, be the final sacrifice?
(with mortal pangs, the mimes become its food)
No, no, Ren would be his. His…forever. In that endless cycle. Death and rebirth. Only them.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, evil to the darkness, amen. He barely felt it end.
"Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm.
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm,
That the play is the tragedy, 'Man,'
And its hero the Conqueror Worm."
5.26.05
Ah, I worked so hard on this, really! I don't own Diabolo, nor do I own the lovely poem that belongs to Edgar Allen Poe. The Conqueror Worm, it's called. So here it is, and I pray that you (the reader, of course) did not hate it.
Please review, either way!
