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to his death-
morning of sleep
i hear them weep
peep through the veil,
of curtains.
a child-hidden in pale,
mourned faces of demise-
but he,whose soul is taken
lies under the grey pallor-
whiten skinned,
a prudent grin
brows near,
his eyes shut.
minutes pass,
those stricken eyes
look aghast.
carried from his tainted home-
fiend of Faust smirk away,
drags the corpse to his crusted cave.
the street of mourn,has gone to weep
inside the roof,he used to sleep.
they thought,he lost what he beloved
the fiend rejoice,his rusted laugh.
none,they saw,his shadowed self
leave the corpse the fiend beheld.
scorn the faiths of his loved selves
demise the bitter melancholy
made mockery of the living dead,
went to rest in heaven's bed.
all this and all,while i slept
they turned to stone,and dust again.
.
