J. Newman Pritchard

In chill dark hour when Reapers stutter,
in Death’s wake, Gray Shadows mutter-
whisper, tell, of life eternal,
of flesh unholy, of grave made fertile
The Promised Heir, the Putrid Son,
whom haunt and fiend still wait upon,
Fooled god, fooled devil, and mortal kind
he gave a Mask they wear to blind
themselves as they in darkness dance
to songs that tell his Foul Romance

From fort and field they hear the song
enchanted join the growing throng
Over hills and churning seas,
entranced in wretched jubilees,
spilling in to ancient halls-
that lovely Name adorns the walls
A maestro guides the graven tune,
a ghostly choir begins to croon,
strangers joined by haunting chants-
by tales that speak of Foul Romance

On moonless night so clear and dark,
they waltz upon his cursed mark-
carve away a crooked scar,
the birthmark of the Stillborn Star
Here walks the Priest, the Acolyte,
mask of gold and blade of white-
The bane of gods, the Leeching Sword,
sweeping wide to gut the horde
A sacrifice of Crimson Flood,
the dance, eternal, sealed in blood

Awake! Awake! cry blood and blade,
Come feast upon your Masquerade!
Meat roasted false, wine aged in lies-
all earth adorns your Great Disguise!
The maestro bleeds, the music wails-
all smiling red behind their veils
What sickly dread; they crave the Flea!
They thrust the blade, they turn the key
From moving corpse, the maggots crawl
toward smell so sweet: the Carrion Call

Awake! Awake! He nears at last
and brings the promised cursed past
So cracks the ground; thus breaks the crypt,
up from the ballroom floor he slipped-
Nightmare lurching from his sleep
All dancing still, the people weep-
held high their blackened hearts aloft
for him to taste so sweetly soft
With tongue as sharp as broken bone,
the Risen One makes secret known
Reborn, he claims his accolade
and feasts upon the Masquerade

In chill dark hour when Reapers sleep,
when the widow and the orphan weep,
longing for a Second Birth
for those that lay beneath the earth,
an Ancient Throat does whisper still
that promise to the Autumn chill:
that e’er the things which lie below
await the song that all hearts know
A song that one day shall be played-
a final waltz – the Masquerade.