Danse Macabre

These grey days of troubled hope,
this age like those before;
famine, plague and pestilence,
or grimmest times of war.

Thoughts reel with darkling partners,
dancing jigs without delight.
The echoed steps within mind's halls,
keep the dancers up at night.

We sway with protestation,
the folly of youth's ideal.
Waltzing-masked around each other,
trying not to feel.

Each step we take, leads ever on,
in this, our danse macabre.
United in divided fear,
snagged by every social barb.

My virtue! My tribe!
Behold my dedication!
If only we could dance together,
instead of all this exclamation.