You will know, you'll feel the change,
That calls on parts of you most strange,
And through the wooded halls, you'll pass,
To gather for Its ancient mass.
The fallen towers' decaying bark,
Will harbor haunts of growing dark,
The slime will sweat, the crawlers teem,
You will not wake, this is no dream.
Descending into rotting cold,
You'll hear Its voices, deep and old,
And when their song has chilled your bone,
You'll know that you are not alone.
The path will dim and fall to end,
The soil below, itself shall rend,
The wyrm within shall rise without,
With blackened fur and horned snout.
And surely as the lichens gnaw,
It opens up its snarling maw,
The void beyond the smiling tooth,
Revealing long-forgotten truth.
10.13.17 and 10.14.17 Inktober prompts: Teeming and Fierce
