Danse Macabre

No time for time's winged chariot. 

When each second swells up - taut pellet of gall -

And spews death, in a gleeful gurgle,

Races away down the sinkhole

Of eternity.

In a glutinous mess. 

Then fill up the ballooning belly of space -

Whip up Lethe in a swirling shroud,

For dark or bright, then or now,

Are all one black.