Dinner Party Martyrs

And we'll start poems mid stanza
We'll play musical chairs

The sad waltz drags on
Through the layers of black
Crying and crying
I want my voice back

The creaky floored beggar
With dirt in his tears
And a smile on his face
Cause he hums what he hears

The dinner party martyrs
With their candles and their plates
They whisper slanted words about people
Who arrived to the cult meeting late

While the broken waltz drags on
The hinged piano and its glass
At it cracks pennies and breaks windows
Through the smoke thin candle wax

As the dinner party draws
To a winter ended close
The poor martyrs and their curtain calling
But nobody comes or goes

Written on the invitation
If anybody really cares
"And we'll start poems mid stanza
We'll play musical chairs"

I wrote whatever came out first, what ever adjective first described what i saw in my head