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The Midnight Waltz
By Thomas Miller
In the quiet hours when the world is still,
The dead rise up, their voices chill.
They gather 'round the ancient oak,
In tattered garments, torn and broke.
Their hands entwined in a ghastly dance,
A waltz of sorrow, a macabre romance.
They move in rhythm, slow and cold,
A tragic tale of lives untold.
No music plays, no violins weep,
Just the whisper of wind through the trees that creep.
The earth beneath them, soft and wet,
A reminder of all they must forget.
Yet still they dance, though their hearts are dust,
Bound by the ties of death’s cruel trust.
In the midnight hour, they find their grace,
In the shadows where they leave no trace.