A crowd settles like dust on a grave in the theatres week high space
Thick with its nightmare dark thrill, the voices rustle,
The bodies still. Waiting for the wasted temptation.
Sound tires, the ceiling is small as an open fist.
Leaning gothic walls creak from tree moulding winds.
The light deepens into crimson. It begins.
As first the books are discarded so with it goes guarded knowledge
Of what can and cannot exist. As the dancers swarm the stage like ants
Crowd round and soaked into the bitter magus their faces crack
Out of character as their attention caught by a new arrival
Thrown down into their flowing lake of bodies in the corner of each of their eyes.
Amidst the thought false incantation and alchemic potions
An extra devil dances with dead fire traces of too well timed steps.
He captures their audiences with black wings and them, keep moving
Though his gaze away locks them like a thunderbolts flash.
All eyes are snared by features moulded by a blind mans genius
The snap of a branch heard even through the walls and the music
Brings a blink to the eyes of the powerless magician and his watchers
And the realisation sinks into them.
The dawning horror of the actors drifts over to the audience like smoke
until all reason abandons them to panic and a stampede for doors
Like a river raging towards a dam. The dam stands firm.
The devil keeps dancing a grin cut into his face as he drifts across the stage
Like nails over oak. Trees drum against the walls to his tune
sending shockwaves of echo through the hall.
Flames fall as a final curtain over the actors struck with falling Chaos
At the demons limbs. The theatre is left empty. Dead fire hangs in the still air
And the ghost of a laughter that no one is there to hear.
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