The Triumph of the Death

The mournful sound of a bell, people in prayer. My body abandoned in the solitude of the wood, imprisoned by the rags, compelled to suffer from the frostry contact with the ground. In the unbroken silence I'm seized with shuddering. I turn into matter and then into dust. She flew up. An imperceptible ascent in the knowledge dimension, she penetrates the darkest maze of the infinite universe. My ignorant body will never know the eternity formulas. Uh, I'm still, She's fluid. I'm frozen. She's wrapped up in the warmest blows of knowledge, she flies free. The secret will be revealed to her: the ingenious one.

Submitted by BloodShrine — Apr 25, 2025

The rooms are crowded the dances begin in the euphory of the party, the orgy frenetically takes place but the last room, the black one, is lonely. Solitary presence: an ebony clock: the mute echo of the pauses after every lugubrious stroke. The black walls eclipse the room, the band interrupts an euphoric melody, wide open eyes under the mask are seeking after a veil of certitude, terro and uneasiness in the hearts, the strokes stop, the music plays again the dances get livelier, a playful shouting spreads somebody has forgotten, to someone else if's only a fain memory, time goes cruelly by. The pendulum-clock strucks midnight, the pauses are painfullly endless, the dances stop again, twelve long strokes call the attention to a lugubrious figure tall and slender wrapped in a sudarium. The mask represents the red death. The bloodstained cloak, the broad forehead, a still corpse's face its glassy stare. It slowly moves with regal bearings as if it's stirred by a cold wind and passing it sows a cursed horror. Pestilence among the masters, pestilence among the servants, pestilence among all the guests. An ona a death carpet it victoriously disappears in the black room.

Submitted by Dahmers Fridge — Apr 25, 2025