The Lie of Prospero

So, one day in English we had to write a poem based on Poe's short story, The Masque of the Red Death. It goes a little something like this:

The Lie of Prospero

When the Red Death came to the people, Prospero hid away with us.

He told us that Death would not come, that we were safe. A masquerade ball would assure us of this charade.

We waltzed and laughed and forgot the troubles outside the aegis of the abbey. Wine was drunk, food was eaten.

We were invincible, hiding beneath our surreal masks and extravagant gowns. Room by room, we spun, hoping to cheat Death.

God keep us safe.

Oh! But that clock!

The haunting, eerie chimes rang through seven rooms of color, emanating from that room of black.

We stopped, brought back from our fantastic reverie, to listen to the bell that chimed for us all.

Were we naive or just in denial? Did we know that Death would come for us all? Were we trying to convince ourselves of immortality?

Perhaps we would have, had the Red Death not come.

Deus servo nos tutus.

It walked by us, we dare not stop it.

Blood dripped from its pores, its mask was the face of one long dead in a mausoleum.

Through the seven rooms, the figure stalked, impeded by none.

Our prince found his courage and followed the path of the gruesome figure, to stop this blasphemer once and for all.

Deus servo nos

Prospero advanced to the room that so resembled our macabre guest.

Drawing his dagger, our prince confronted and perished.

We, too, found our valor, and were rewarded with death.

For under that morbid mask was…nothing.

Nothing but the sights, smells, sounds and feeling of scarlet blood bleeding from our pores.

The Red Death had come.

Deus mos non servo nos.

God will not save us.