Danse Macabre
Stephen Jackson
The ticking of the clock—
death’s own little music box,
pointed, black-cloaked hands
inviting you to dance a waltz
with faith,
with hope,
with chance—
while, in the garden bloom
flowers of such bright youth.
Stephen Jackson
The ticking of the clock—
death’s own little music box,
pointed, black-cloaked hands
inviting you to dance a waltz
with faith,
with hope,
with chance—
while, in the garden bloom
flowers of such bright youth.
