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The sky is blue, and water wet;
So the ocean must be too.
Once I sunk beneath the waves
To gain a better view:

Pink and spongy; black and scaly;
Yellow jelly, cold and clammy;
Beady eyestalks glaring
From an urchin crusted cave.
Clustered tubercles protruding,
Searching tentacles recoiling,
Pulsing mandibles awaiting;
Ever lurking in the shade.

The universe exploding with
One billion burning suns,
Is empty, void and meaningless
When all is said and done.  
So for those inclined to measure
What hue the ocean be:
Ignore her gaudy creatures
For the darkness in between.

The sky is blue, and water wet,
But the ocean – it is black
And I fear the vile abyss that is
Endless, dark, and black.
By Gods was it written that life upon earth
That grows by the light of the sun;
All things that have crawled since original birth -
Will suffer, and suffer as one.

Ever since I was young have I longed to disown
These words of insidious verse,
But I can’t lift the weight of that terrible stone
Where inscribed is humanity’s curse.

So with sorrow and anger I burdened the sky
Imploring the end of all pain -
What I witnessed I never could score from my mind
And hardly can speak of again.

With a passionate fury I openly scorned
All sorrow and madness and fear.
But the howling refrain of existence was gone -
Never again to appear.

Abolished was pain and the source of all pain -
Words unsaid, but I knew it was so.
Then a trembling boom bid a thousand stars rain
From the heavens above to below.

And the infinite span of the gaping, black maw
That had spawned each of infinite woes,
Distending its realm of unending abyss,
Yawned wide, then forever did close.

I opened my eyes from that terrible sight
Like an animal gasping for air.
And still to this day am I frozen with fright
When into far places I stare,

For I know there’s no ultimate end to our pain,
Nor an ultimate evil to sever.
We suffer as one - the alternative is
Oblivion now and forever.
A horror from the dark;
The dreadful fiend awaits.
Its properties appall for they
Were formed in outer space.

Its skin is made of eyes.
The eyes are made of skin.
A thousand gnashing teeth adorn
The bones that move within.

The stomach is a brain;
The brain therefore consumes.
In time it shall attain a form
That human life assumes.

Perhaps it has arrived
And walks among us now.
A being so contrived will beg
The questions – Why? and How?

Conspiracy - I say -
A thing of troubled thoughts;
A fabrication made of fears
Anxiety has wrought.

So what if it were true?
- A doomed humanity -
A New World Order – new, in that,
We’d suffer equally.

But the teeth remain unseen
And the seething eyes are blind,
For when I dream, I dream instead
Of people left behind.

The fear of the unknowns
That from the darkness peer
All vanish when we know that horrors
Are already here.

The fictions that we’ve made
Conceal a world inversed,
But I am unafraid because,
The truth, in fact, is worse.
Chris Jan 12
Born out of chaos, the chaos that sleeps,
Crept out of the Nameless Mists,
Spawn of void and boundless deeps,
Knows and sees all that can exist.

He knows, knows all he knows and sees,
He sees all and broods and waits,
He stands guard and holds the keys,
He knows the gate, he is the gate.

He's as great as space is vast.
By the unnameable's dreams he's brought,
The present, the future and the past,
All are one in Yog-Sototh.
Dedicated to one of the most awesome creations of the great H.P.L :)
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
Vexren4000 Dec 2018
To the depths they go,
Traversing trenches,
Making strides upon the tides,
Lovecraft's beasts, wandering the waters,
The feeling of mighty eyes watching you,
As if you were but a drop of flesh in an ocean of predators,
In most ways you are,
When one swims in the ocean.
Or dives for the secrets it holds,
In its mighty body.

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.

Bethan Roberts Aug 2018
If you travel the coast as the air gets much colder
You might find that you are inclined to be bolder
But it would be safer to give the cold shoulder
To Sepulchre-by-the-sea.

There's a lady in white, and a lady in grey
And a girl with a lantern who howls down the bay,
And much more besides, but I'd stay away
From Sepulchre-by-the-sea.

Yes, there's bare-breasted women who sing on the rocks
Just out from the jetty, tossing green locks
But I think that you should stay clear of the docks
And from Sepulchre-by-the-sea.

See, the local gazette it prints fevered petitions
Against succubi stealing nocturnal emissions
And how corpses go wandering from the morticians
In Sepulchre-by-the-sea.

There's a man in the inn whose incisors are filed
And two men share a room and one’s wicked, one mild
But only one’s in when their room number’s dialled
From Sepulchre-by-the-sea.

Now, officially the dog population’s in stasis
But will somehow increase on a once monthly basis
And then viscera’s found in unusual places
In Sepulchre-by-the-sea.

There's some fishermens’ families who look rather odd
And can't manage to shake the aroma of cod
And they've got their own church but who knows to what god?
In Sepulchre-by-the-sea.

Seaside kiosks sell postcards in a decent range
But look at them twice and you might find it strange
That the poses of people and views seem to change
Of Sepulchre-by-the-sea.

There's a man with long limbs who lives out in the woods
And I'd say to forget him if only you could
But to keep him at least out of mind would be good,
Ditto Sepulchre-by-the-sea.

You may say it's haunted, you may say it's cursed,
You may say that of bad luck it's got just the worst
But you could say all of that without going first
To Sepulchre-by-the-sea,
To Sepulchre, there, by the sea.
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