Magnum Opis Sanguinaire

Music, bright and shimmering through the air,
dancers gliding in and out of the twilight,
Brilliant arrays of satin and velveteen, aswirl in the night air.
Fading in and out of memory and time.
Etheric footfalls echoing in the void,
Strands of merriment trailing listlessly through the abyss,
Waltzing eternally to a tune long concluded,
from an orchestra long silenced,
never to put down their instruments.
A promenade through their final moments, endlessly dancing.
Blood-stained tatters strewn about,
in the tomb of their endless soiree,
their mortality memorialized in the finality of the grave.
On they dance, in plain view of their murderer.
His apathetic pen dancing its own frantic tune across the blank pages,
it red ink puddling into their bloody anthology,
weaving woe and torment from the nyxian depths of his mind,
A sadistic, irreverent, bloody liturgy of a night to remember, long forgotten.
Until at last the quill unsheaths itself from their torments,
ruby-red in the dying candlelight, 
and falls from the poet's hands, its well now exhausted.
The ink dries from bright crimson to dull brown,
The final master piece of the great master,
sealed for ever, his life upon the page.
A morte in sanguine regum,
opus in domino,
vita impiorum operit iniquitatem.