Death is a thing unsatisfied
That creeps into the hall.
He taps you on the shoulder—then,
You smell the urging Gall—

He pulls you back into the Dark—
You hear the final Bell.
The Beast will celebrate the night
As he drags you to Hell.

He steals you from your ill-spent life,
What man cannot—he takes—
You lose the light, the air—yet win
The promise of your Fate—

For once your soul is trapped below,
He rises yet again—
To wrap the hall in Dust—and hide
The footsteps where you’ve been.

It’s not enough to move a rug
To cover up your Stain—
So Death performs his spotless job
And feasts on your remains.