Under a sick and trumpery moon
go the unwary, never realizing
that beneath the shallow surface
of their reality lurks a most gruesome
guest. One who is flagrantly sentient,
always on the verge of delirium,
who speaks a truth only the eldritch gods
will ever know.
A deranged shadow,
he writhes his hands, hands that have
never shown mercy, hands that are
not hands but talon claws.
He whirls blackness into midnights
of putrid creation.
He allows his long dead thoughts to thrive
within sores that once were citadels;
He comes in the form of Golgotha winds
to render stars in dimmer glow
and make hearts flicker low.
sanity living as a vague apparition
of all monstrous things;
things half-seen built with columns of blood,
worshiped in tear drenched temples
that abide on nameless stone
in a void of space that
drinks eternity and spews vibronic vapors
he melds darkness into spheres of
Moreover, through this his
molting graveyard of a universe
the rhythmic, loathsome beating of no remorse
is heard as a bombination of drums. This combined
with the shrill, monotone whine of profane
flutes drifts to earth as a vision
of inconceivable, black caverns.
Deifying time, his abominable pounding
and piping, leads him to a macabre ballet
of evil incarnate, the ultimate farce
of the gods his blind, voiceless, mindless
cry, has become no more than
the crawling chaos of his world.