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Kj Kennedy Jun 25
Children of the moon
Wait for Cthulhu's return
As they dine on human fear
In hopes he will appear

When The stars align
It will stand with straightened spin  
opening his tired eyes
Followed by the worlds demise

Sleeping in a hole
Far beneath the sea
He delivers horrid scenes
to a chosen fews dreams

Visions of the future
Drowned in smouldered ash
Screams of countless voices
Silenced in a flash

When you look upon his face
A horror to behold
There’s no chance to turn and run
Your soul has turned too cold
Rei Coman Dec 2018
It’s just a book. Nothing more.
A combination of translated words,
written upon tan paper
and bound in black leather.
It’s just a book, and yet somehow
it infects the minds of the readers,
twisting them until
there is nothing left inside their skulls,
nothing but its insidious whisperings.

“The Book of Dead Names”
is the title’s translation, as if to say
those whose times are recorded within
are among us no more.
Or perhaps the author,
so distraught by what he had learned,
sealed their existence away
in the shrine of forgetfulness
so that no others would suffer like him.

Just a book.
Just words.
Harmless, comforting letters, arranged
into patterns.

Yet, using only these written words,
the mad Arab has conveyed
our smallness in the immensity
of this our universe,
our insignificance alongside
the insatiable hunger of the stars.
He paid dearly for his prehension,
crumbling away like an ancient ruin
before the endless, shifting desert
that is the merciless chaos.

He is gone.
But his lexicon remains.
Just a book.

But such knowledge is not meant
for the fragile, breakable forms
of our species. To understand
our place in the universe,
and the immeasurable horrors
from which aegis of Ignorance
shields us, is to let go
of the handholds of sanity and drift
silently off into the void of enlightenment.

Yet still the book is read. Still humanity
turns its gaze to the stars,
and deep beneath the earth, searching
for confirmation of what we already know,
though our psyche may forbid
us to conceive of it.
Knowledge is not power. It is not freeing.
It is death. Death and ruin to all
who grasp the truth of this dark world.

It’s just a book.
A book penned by a man insane.
Rows of indecipherable words upon
innumerable pages, worn away by time.
"That is not dead which can eternal lie.
And with strange aeons even death may die".
-H P Lovecraft
Knit Personality Oct 2018
Cthulhu wakes.
The mind of Man
His heart forsakes:
His psyche breaks.

With acid rain
The clouds are thick;
And Man, insane,
Regrets his brain.  

The dawning doom
Refractively splits
The heavy gloom.
All nightmares loom.

O.O
Mio Seanachaidh Jan 2017
Tremble and hail at Cthulhu's call



Who is Cthulhu?

the Ancient One, A Dark God

first recorded by H.P Lovecraft

once long ago



Now, Cthulhu has several followers

few at first but rapidly on the rise

Cthulhu is very real and soon will be revealed



He's in deep slumber

Way below in R'lyeh

far under the sea



If ever he shall awaken

The whole world will be shaken

All humanity will be lost



Only a whisper of a spell

From the Necronomican

Can seal him back to his tomb



Beware for when the stars align, R'lyeh will suddenly appear

and Cthulhu will revive his subjects

To rule this Earth once more



Cthulhu, the powerful, ancient, and he who knows all

Come and heed his call

He speaks telepathy to those who will listen

Come, Cthulhu, your child awaits

To hear your voice and spread your message

To those who don't believe
"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of the infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far." - H.P Lovecraft
Johan Nel Oct 2016
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
© Johan Nel 12 October 2016

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