In dreams does the rose bloom.
Wild and free, her beauty graces the land,
Bathing the dreaming in floral perfume,
Once more beyond the gates that stand
Between sweet chaos in life,
And the grand splendor of reality's end.
Daylights glow finds the rose amidst strife,
A vision in crimson glory as dark winds bend
And bind in the frigid world of the waking.
Vile beasts bring despair to her bed of soil,
Raining sorrow upon the soul that's breaking
To the will of those who in darkness toil.
Sweet sleep shall ease the burdened mind,
As the fantastic beyond beckons yet again,
Through sand hewn gates,
Into the deep waters of passions plain.
Madness, I was given
in darkness, I descend
Never to be forgiven
for the horrors I defend
The path away from college
etched upon my mind
Seeking greater knowledge
evil did I find
My straitjacket too tight
but that, is rightly so
Demons that were sated
on blood that I let flow
I hear it as clearly as my madness will let me
That antiquated rumble that seems infinite
Tormenting as if pleading for an answer
I have listened for what seems like a lifetime
My curiosity always fearing
To go further than my helpless ears
But my feet are not my own anymore
I feel most possessed
As if my body is being beckoned
My feet move with a courage that is not my own
I have come to understand
With every step I grow more religious
Wondering if a healthy prayer
Would give me the mental fortitude
To confront what was at the end of this dreadful journey
My feet have trudged for what feels like an eternity
Always hugging this gruesome cliff side
I have repented enough for two lifetimes
But it is not enough to break these shackles
The call becomes more deafening the closer I go
Ever more appealing and atrocious
And the more I listen
The more I can feel an eldritch presence
Ethereal and hauntingly decadent
Whatever this abomination is it has cast its line on me
It's fetid hooks sinking deep
And I feel as naked as a prior without his crucifix
As the hill angles ever so slowly downward
I feel my trepidation grow tenfold
There is a place is stories told
Handed down generations
About an accursed grotto
Before there was a church
There was a church of another kind
Worshipping older gods than the ones I know
They say it was a fanatical cult
Made up of local townsfolk
Ever so zealous and faithful
Who sacrificed and mutitlated their kin
To appease their gods
Other always thought it a wives tale
Meant to terrify pesky children
But I knew better
Ever since hearing that faint invasive call
Old gods or no I make peace with my end drawing near
I steel myself and walk vigilant to my death
Down these carved out stone steps
But though I thought myself a warrior
Nothing could prepare me for what lied ahead
Into the decrepit grotto I go ever blind
With the only illumination my faint fading soul
And with that fading it all goes black
And I step further into this abyss
My fickle soul left me
As if it was already reaped
And what I hear next is the true Calling of the Deep
From whence it departed sweet sleep returns,
Banishing the weary mind to drifting bliss,
Granting sweeping visions as the wheel of night slowly turns.
Stranger realms wait beyond the wall,
‘Neath the veil of darkness that drapes o’er the land,
Separating the dreaming from the waking world’s all.
Oh great rest do not forsake the fool,
Nor the hand pushed by forces seen not by mortal eyes,
For glimpses at peace during chaos are a needed tool.
Once more through the gates guarding the sunlit land,
Into the upside down that becomes the realm of the slumbering ones,
Where gods and monsters meet the fool in his nightly stand.
Stranger realms do indeed wait just beyond the wall,
When conscious thoughts of the world around finally fade,
Giving way to the beauty of sweet sleep’s beck and call.
The seas lay undisturbed in a darkness like none primed
A constellation of age old men still play the songs of time
Exploding and gaseous, unperturbed by what is dead or alive
And he lays waiting, dreaming in his house of limbo animation
The monster of not good nor bad but the mere idea of creation
The infinite water, black as the heart of earth
Holds the old gods and the colossal that is to be birthed
He cannot be simply gazed upon or braved by violent men
For he is not time or space or life, his image is not made sane by pen
He rises to the perversions of man, passed to cultists young at play
And when lust for blood burns in the eyes on his image of clay
Dancing fits, trembling tremors and eyes lost to the sky of white
His will plays boundless through the dreams of poets who cry at night
So the age will erupt and heed these prophetic words
Be weary in the movement of the seas, the grounds and birds
Lost at once in the blindness of your ignorance
It is when the veil is lifted and strange aeons have arrived
When Cthulhu surely walks the earth and death has surely died
A warm breeze ushers in the fall of night,
As small torches hold court in the fading daylight.
Their flickering glow sends shadows dancing across the ground,
Whilst amphibious royalty croon to the land their ancestral sound.
Distant shores beckon the weary mind.
Exotic lands promise escape from the woes of mankind,
Back into the ocean depths once more,
Beyond the wall of sleep envisioned in lore.
'Tis the pull of the evening tide;
Where such wonders await travelers upon the other side.
Azathoth almighty, thou lord of all chaos,
Who knowest not goodness, who knowest not ill,
Who knowest but freedoms and fetters are truthful
And morals are lies which but fetter free will:
The sunlight hath flown from the swallowing darkness,
Retreating to hide in—and worry—the west;
(For flee it doth ever the following darkness
Which followeth e'er in eternal unrest.)
The night hath arrivèd with lightning and thunder
And rain that delivers the joy of all joys,—
The joy of receiving, enclos'd in the darkness,
Thy thundering voice in the chaos of noise.
So I published a book recently; The H Trilogy Volume 1: City of Angels
And I'm REALLY frustrated because the book should be #1 on the Amazon Hot New Releases right now in Poetry but instead there is an HP Lovecraft book in the #1 position and I'm #2. This is an atrocity to the integrity of all us real writers because for one the anthology is not New. HP Lovecraft is dead. And the anthology was not released by him. If you read the reviews on the Lovecraft collection you'll see!
There are many 1 star reviews from people that I don't know but that share the same perspective of outrage as I do.
PLUS, Lovecraft's work is public domain and it is actually illegal for people to capitalize off of his work.
Let's focus on writers that are still living instead of giving credit to one's that have passed. "H.P. Lovecraft Complete Collection" is not new, nor is it poetry. So how can it rightfully be listed as a poetry new release? Come on, please, let's make this right.
Here's the link to my book: https://www.amazon.com/Trilogy-City-Angels-Aaron-Lux/dp/1535054328
on that slimy isle of sea and sky,
I'll bolt the door forever more.
A depth of death awaits my soul
upon the ocean floor.
The scream of salt,
more chilling than the roar.
A flash of flesh
was cause enough
for terror thoughts galore.
Returned I am,
to this deity of lore.
Somewhere, out in the far reaches remains
an ancient, slumbering thing, perhaps a god.
Its dreams permeate the fabric of time,
and beyond this sublime veil lies it's crimes
so loathsome and indescribable, to name all
would be impossible in this, it's Land of Nod.
All, perhaps, except those with supreme gifts,
a certain kind of sight that steals you away,
lifts you from the known, safe, realms of real.
Some consider it a blessing, others a curse.
For better or worse, all who survive the ordeal
find themselves with vision. Truth that blinds.
And so it is in this sorry state our story finds
old Mr. Ellison of East Eden Street, Surrey,
chained and restrained, though in no hurry,
eyes transfixed, with mixed images in his head,
alongside an amorphous voice that sings.
On a notebook, near his bed, a sentence reads:
"The song wakes the dreamer, the end of all things."