The cold is radiant
in lightless fragments
of wounded space
Where darkness is a weight
unbarable to the natural mind--

there, the Old Ones linger,
one thought beyond Chaos,
at the splintered edge
of the star-strewn abyss
we call universe.

In slumber, they feed on
thin webs of nightmare,
dreaming away the aeons
drifting in a daze
of swelling hunger.

Soon, one by one,
they shall remember the
bright blue ball once prized
for its life-rich continents
Its fertle river valleys...

They shall remember
the flavor of fear,
the terrified chatter,
of dying, broken things,
within ichor-filled coils.

They shall remember
feasting on quivering
dinosaur flesh, draining
the electric echoes of
pain--and shall awaken--

The Old Ones will open
red eyes on the star-wheels
and return to thin the human herds.
When nap time is over,
the screaming time will come...

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Dedicated to H.P.Lovecraft
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