The Tower, streching past the glittering stars,
Was struck and by the roaring thunder fell,
Even as cold and breathless corpses are,
Their limbs scattering 'mong the burning hell,
Then reanimated by the magic potion of mirth,
Dancing a vain and uncontrollable waltz with death.
The conjurer smiled, the magician, the manipulator,
Casting a haughty glance at the distorted throng,
And waving his magic wand, sent a thousand envoys
To torture their posthumous existences.
Nothing was astir, save the forced sounds of suffering pain.
Yea. Even that was unwilling, a mutiny within, the engulfing rain.
Alas! Dirae nox fati dira! (The dreadful night of their cursed fate!)
Ungrammatical structures are retained to heighten the sense of Chaos — words twist and contort like distorted limbs. (metapoetic)