I eat books and souls.|
Lovecronic Lovecraft, Byron and Fry (Part 3)I fear I shall not be believed, that I shall be looked upon as a raving madman in the deepest throws of blackest soul-devouring insanity! Yet I swear by all the gods, should any such beings hold sway over this morbid sphere, that what I say is true. Upon that hellish Hallo'een night some dread entity had broken through the barriers of existence to wreak havoc with man's shallow conceptions of reality.Lovecronic Lovecraft, Byron and Fry (Part 3) by Somnolent-Droid
Space and time were shattered by a malignant astral force far beyond our fragile comprehension. This diabolical force made of my doorway a portal to other times and places, through which a string of characters from previous and future ages entered into existence.
As I have previously related, Lord Byron was the first. A more wicked and sinful man never crawled into unwholesome existence. To look upon his pale visage - as diabolically beautiful as the most skilfully sculpted Grecian statute, as hideously lecherous as the most loathsomely debauched daemon - was to feel the passion and pull
Along the DunesBeneath the blackened moonAlong the Dunes by Somnolent-Droid
under a silvered dune
the winds have come undressed
where the dead laid down to rest
While grey seeds sowed in lime
scar the landscape in a line
Now you melt away
Beneath the reeds, the dusk of day
The sky runs cold and grey
on another wasted play
Then we swiftly dart
like the hunter to the hart
Tendons trace the ground
as the night becomes our sound
Chase your dignity through my halls
break empty bottles on stone walls
Crush white chalk and stain your hands
Paint your lips with rusted sands
Still the rains run on and on
on the the fields we walk upon
like waters dead and cold
now the fear has taken hold
Waiting for her to come this wayThe breeze tousles through the night and his hair.Waiting for her to come this way by NotenSMSK
He sits in expectance for her to come here;
waiting for her to come this way.
Like that first time; her footsteps echoed so loud.
In a night as such not even the moon could be proud.
An ethereal glow she emitted, an embodying light.
The wind ruffled her black locks like an angel in flight.
Her breath was a sanctifying whisper of life
and her dress; oh a woven fabric of natures device.
Her soft traces upon the earth would have grown
the fruit bearing brushwood, piercing through a stone.
The hair settled; the wings retreated, her eyes slowly set
on a young boy tending tulips. Their gaze just then met.
He stared; what else could he do; she stood a little away.
The moon too curtsied to her outlining her portrait.
He stood tranquil, the tulip yet held in his hand.
She smiled and approached like a being with command.
She took the tulip, sniffing in its fragrance, sighing so deep,
the earth purred in compliance underneath her feet.