Van Der Maäl sits clawed in a high-backed chair,
With a purple gown and oiled hair,
And holds up a candle against the encroaching dark.

The shadow seeps, bursts, breathes forth misty
Opulant colours in a fragmented rush,
And heels click like bones over the black and white tiles,
All laid out for Society's Game.
Somewhere blank a glass tinkles and smashes,
Rolls like a shining splintered crab,
Cackles like dice.
Just like a game.

Van Der Maäl, Mally to friends, or sudden allies,
Slithered through Rank and file
With a pearl-slab grin, and a vintage tipped in hand. Like so.
...Wreathed through suits and silk, left trails:
Sidelong looks, blushes, frowns.
Swept along with coat-tails streaming.
His subtle scheming.
A grand game for the gentleman.

Tipped conversations, ruined intimacies,
Played the guests,
Moved,
Sat like a spider thronged with the hum,
The web,
His life.
Just a game.

There is the echo of a crack.
Van Der Maäl sits in his alcoholic dust
With an insignificant beard.
In the distance of the long, cold hall
The glass evaporates into memory.

He twists a ring on his finger, given, donated by some girl,
A nameless one.
His face contorts.
The Bachelor dies.
And the shadows rush in to feast upon him.