How are there candles burning
in these shadowed, drafty halls?
How is it that I gaze upon
the bones within the walls?
There are no parties held here now,
no balls or grand affairs,
so why do I see people laugh and drink
and talk in pairs?
The voices started softly, gently,
calling out my name.
And by the end I yelled and cried,
but no one ever came.
The halls are bright and festive now,
and full of fever dreams.
The voices and the laughter drown
the terror in my screams.
And still the candles burn here,
ever melting, never gone.
I guess I am the lighter then,
so I’ll be moving on…
BlackQuill 