The Halls of the Dead

Beyond my breaking belief
An abode; the bell every hour
On the hour summoned the Dead
And the Dreary, the Worried
And the Weary;
A branch off a master trunk
Old as the dusty dreams
Said to be the only truth
Worth clinging to;
Beneath a dust cover high above
Rattling remains of one who spoke
At length and at depth and at
Everyone and everything
Congregated; now silence fill
The void left to those still present:
The Dead and the Dreary,
The Worried and the Weary, in an
Abode far beyond
My fascination.