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Carlo C Gomez Dec 2019
The drive is endless, perilous,
and being recorded for posterity,
because one planet
is no longer enough.

H.P. Lovecraft is at the wheel,
and we're looking at one thing
and not your mother.

That was a Freudian slip,
but not really surprising
since he's also along for the ride.

And when we get there
we'll scavenge for sovereignty
in the orange filter of hope.

Then a flag will mark
our demesne,
a spot defining both
pride & terror,
as it delivers a dose of ambition,
yet, reeks of future tyranny.

Pray our luck runs out along the way
or we run out of gas
or steam
or headway...

Then again, maybe we should
hope for the breast.
I mean best !
Freud's at it again.
Because one planet is no longer enough
adi Sep 2019
To sailors mad and poets in pain,
In dreams of unimagined colors,
Appeared Cthulhu horror-bearer
Spreading phantoms to their brain
Praise Cthulhu Lord of Terror
Harbor of sleep to the insane.
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.
Chris Jan 2019
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 :)
Sofia J 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.

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