Soon

The moth moved apparently aimlessly
amid the motionless mannequins of the mausoleum.
Corpses clad in transparent parchment,
fine
         thin
                   and brittle,
long dead and dusty,
grinned or gaped,
         without mirth
in silence stretching eternally.

Light trod hesitantly here, faltered and,
died amongst the deep shadows and oppressive darkness.
A lonely, young death, one more among so many.
Unmourned.

The flutter of wings, so small a disturbance,
stirring dust motes to a danse macabre of dead skin.

Something stirs spindly.
Crooked fleshless phalanges beckon
the moth alights, illuminates
creates a chiaroscuro.

Finds reflection in eyeless sockets.

"When?"

Asks the still sealed soul.

"Soon." replies the messenger moth,

"Another thousand years or so."

"Soon."


Line Count: 22.

Written for the Dark Dreamscapes Poetry Contest October 2021, Week 2, Prompt 1.

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