Skies of painted ceilings dwell above my head
The more I look around, the more I get a sense of dread.
Masquerade faces held up by sticks dance in groups of two,
Hollowed eyes look through them, the color of rotted stew.
What twisted faces lie beneath these masks I cannot tell,
I fear it could be worse than this lingering deadly smell.
On further observation I see some dancers take their seats,
But the strange thing about this event is that the dancers have no feet.
Minutes go by like hours as I stand in amazement and shock,
Suddenly came a loud ringing noise as they all looked at the clock.
The end finally came to this masquerade of the dead,
I wanted to stay but something decided to pull me out instead.
Floating along the ballroom floor in dresses of white lace,
Leaving behind them on the floor no evidence or trace.