Among the Living

Beneath the gleaming of the ashen moon,

She paces, dressed in robes of black and wailing 

Music of the most demented kind.

The people try to shut it out for fear

Of hearing their own voices echo back,

But cannot help but join the Danse Macabre.

She sings of pain tabooed by all to feel,

For there will be no rest nor peace for her,

The dead among the living.

Upon the rising of the sun at dawn,

The people know not why they danced at night;

They only know that by unspoken law,

The song enraptured none besides the mad.

But still, a rumor of a phantom spreads

Through whispers marked by unacknowledged fear:

They say she calls upon forbidden truths

To join her in the mourning of her death.

But only one can know the secrets of

The dead among the living.

By day, the Widow stays in solitude

Because the others do not comprehend 

The machinations of her troubled mind.

They wondered why she wore her wedding gown

The day she took her newfound jaded name.

It was because her dress was crafted with

A veil; her funeral attire was made

Without, and thus, they never understood

That though the corpse’s casket was kept shut, 

These people saw before their blinded eyes

The dead among the living.

So at the rising of the ashen moon,

Again, she paces, dressed in black and wailing

Songs of pain tabooed by all to feel.

She orchestrates the Danse Macabre,

And all the people dance along, despite

How hard they try to block the music out

For fear of finding something in themselves:

The dead among the living.