She comes forth Deadly - Parodying Lord ByronShe comes forth deadly, like the night Of ceaseless crimes and sunken sighs;And all that's foul of dark and fright Greet her casket in glad criesThus opened by that sinful blight Which Satan to wan day denies. One shade the more, one spectre less, Knew nought besides that phantom's faceWhich wails in every brazen mess, Or slowly lingers in its place;Where fears keenly cruel suppress, All light, all life and saving grace. And o'er that eye, and on that brow, So hard, so stern, in rough judgement,The leers that kill, the hints that cow, All tell of years in Hades spent,A soul in bonds with all below, A heart whose beat is my torment!
Four-and-Twenty CultistsSing along everyone - this one's rather jolly! (the rhyming scheme at least).******I saw angels dance with devilsunder winter's crystal sky.Old men passed between them,crying "Dead men never die!"Then the oceans fell before us,as the dead began to sing.Heavens parted wider;winds prickled at our skin.Now Satan awakes slowly,like shadows on the sands.Together we beg forgiveness,as he lacerates our hands.The landscape lies broken,as stones roll through the hills.Stars are growing brighter,fed by blood of untold kills.Death bends his toxic breath,exuding nameless streams.fabricating nightmaresand crimson coloured dreams.
The Seraphim of Cobwebbed HallsSilently I heard her whispering,pallid ivory lips soft lisping,Paper drifting slowly shifting,from the bedroom's mildewed walls.In these halls stirs vaguest chanting,whippoorwills their cries decanting;psycopomps in midnight sighing,just outside these mildewed walls.Huddled forms sprawl stealthily creeping,countless spiders surging sweeping,toward the bed where she lies sleeping,the maiden of these mildewed walls.Trapped within that pall's mass trembling,writhes the one I stayed here tending,all those bleak nights never-ending,within these wretched mildewed walls.Blasphemous birds fall shrieking mocking,through the window thickly flocking,to snatch the soul of that thing rotting,my sweet seraphim of cobwebbed halls.
HP Lovecraft's Blasphemous Quest for... MilkAs I sit here, a ruined man, I pray that mankind may never come to know the hideous Truth that drove my mind from the pitiful jest grinning fools term 'reality', and deep into the damnable gulfs of screaming insanity.It was on a brooding day in that most blasphemous month of March when I set out upon my fateful quest. The preceding night I had disinterred the final carton of homogenised lactic potable from my hideously-aged refrigeratory machine. Now, the morning of the 12th, I was desirous that this worthy liquid be replenished in time for that most noble and beautiful of ancient man's aureate ceremonies: breakfast.The hideous rising sun had scarce penetrated the ghoul-haunted abysses of night, when an abominable stab of hunger assailed the narrow confines of my stomach.Long had I dreaded the arrival of this evil omen; this mocking portent.In the preceding weeks I had amassed apparatus and equipment in anticipation of the dread event. Long nights had I spent studying ancien
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