The chamber’s walls do crooked stand,
Beneath the weight of sighs and breath,
They close upon the lifeless band,
Stretched out, awaiting whims of death,
And death once betrayed them, time ago,
When, misled by promised light,
They crossed a threshold, not to know,
Beyond, no hopes would e’er alight.

Bare feet trudge amidst the sound
Of whispering bones and dust entwined.
Pitch black bugs in the underground,
And mold on walls once pure and white.
At the far end, an altar gleams
Of gold and blood, o’er corpses piled,
Which now without tongues, it seems,
Draw near my wrists with whispers wild.

I dart onto the counter’s plane,
Grasping a candelabra tight,
Behind, awakes a marble swain,
An Adonis with Perseus’ might.
I scrape along the altar’s side,
To’rd the vast, behind the organ’s frame,
Yet in my mouth, fate melts inside,
Seeing the dead pursue my name.

I run, but slow, my thighs like lead,
My body’s an anchor by the shrine,
Assaulted by that stronger dead
Adonis, whose breath merges with mine.
The clamor of silence then descends,
The meager throng begins to roar;
They cloak my form in absinthe blends,
A blade descends—the dream’s no more.

Marco Delrio

The Church of the Dead