Note: The Masque of the Red Death is a short story by Edgar Allan Poe. This is a rendering of the story in poem form.
The Red Death, with all its gruesome glory,
Had struck the country and caused much agony.
Prince Prospero, careless and proud,
Hid in a Castellated Abbey with his noble crowd.
The arrogant duke then threw a masquerade,
In Seven Rooms to show Death he was unafraid.
From East to West, the chambers spanned,
To be in a different color each was planned.
First the blue, then the purple, then the youthful green,
Then the orange and the white; his taste was very keen.
The violet and, finally, the Deathly Black,
For the peculiar and the eccentric, Prospero had a knack.
In that final room stood the large ebony clock,
Marking each hour with a chime that spread shock.
The dreadful room was immersed in a deep, blood scarlet,
Planting fear in the hearts of even the most light-hearted.
The revelers, like dreams, writhed in a sea of madness,
Looking wild and frenzy, they danced in the castle’s grandness.
The party prevailed until the clock chimed midnight,
When the noblemen expressed terror at a deplorable sight.
In the blue room, there stood a tall, gaunt figure;
He was dressed as a mummy, the Red Death his killer.
Once he saw the mummer, the Prince was filled with rage;
“Who dares?” he asks, but the stranger walks across the stage.
Prospero follows him, thinking himself brave,
All the way to the Black Room, where lies his grave.
The revelers attack and unmask the villain;
But are surprised to find no concrete form hidden.
One by one, the noblemen fall,
“And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitab