Dance upon
the broken shores
of Great Carcosa,
where Silence
plagues the
calloused ghosts
who wither,
whispering
along the wharf.

They dance
for Him,
our Yellow King,
whose misery
creeps
over brittle fields
and rotting crops
stinking in an
amber sun.
Boardwalks crumble
‘round rusted nails
hammered down
by the last to be
forgotten.

Here the
dying wolf
has sharper
teeth,
even as the
stinging wind
rips the fur
from its flesh.

Dance upon
their crackling
bones
in salted air
to the roar of
the mad
and the crashing
of the lost.

His Eye will
see
and You shall
hear
His song
upon Your
lips.