A shadow shrouds the land,
in dire distress,
A pestilence, unseen
and merciless;
Imprisoned hearts consumed
by fear and dread,
From whispered tales
of suffering and death.

In castle walls,
the noble and the bold,
Seek refuge from
the horrors yet untold;
Unrivaled, crimson
reigns supreme,
staining the walls,
nightmares redeem.

Amidst the revelry,
a masked affair,
The Red Death lurks,
as if it were not there;
The rich adorned
in garments, brightly hued,
The poor forsaken,
lost in solitude.

Seven chambers,
vibrant in their design,
Each one ensnared
within a tangled twine;
Scarlet hues and empty pews
somber music fills the air,
As dances turn to nightmares,
soaked in sodden despair.

The first, adorned in blue,
serene and calm,
Yet still, the Red Death waits,
a silent psalm;
The second, clad in purple's
regal shade,
An omen of the future,
soon displayed.

The third, drenched in green,
a ghastly sight,
A poison, slowly seeping
through the night;
The fourth, wrapped in white,
pure innocence is lost,
As souls succumb to shadows,
tempest-tossed.

The fifth, a hue of orange,
vibrant, and bold,
Yet life's flame flickers,
soon to be controlled;
The sixth, adorned in violet,
mystic show,
Unraveling the secrets,
that none may ever know.

The final chamber,
black as death's embrace,
Reveals the truth,
the specter of disgrace;
A figure shrouded,
masked, with piercing eyes,
The Red Death's presence,
a grimly surprise.

Within its grasp,
the revelers succumb,
Their laughter silenced,
silenced, one by one;
No wealth nor power
can halt the Reaper's sway,
As life fades fast
to darkness and decay.

In the midst of death,
a glimmering insight,
That life's true joy lies not
in worldly plight;
And as church the bells toll,
chiming dread and doom,
The Red Death claims
its final victim's tomb.
© Brian C. Jobe