09-02-2014, 10:32 AM
dedicated to the heroes of Lovecraftian horror stories, and their writers
The bedding rots in a tidy stupor;
its tenant, a scholar, of no repute in
circles far and wide, vanished in the dark,
hid simply, like an elder's carnal sin.
His room, a dirty house its mere keeper,
looks out upon an alley and its grime,
one window of those where poor scholars live.
The normal world without, and its walking slime.
What pain our scholar felt before he left!
The daily grind of humans and their talk...
So when a world beyond opened its door,
all he did was pack his books and walk.
The bedding rots in a tidy stupor;
its tenant, a scholar, of no repute in
circles far and wide, vanished in the dark,
hid simply, like an elder's carnal sin.
His room, a dirty house its mere keeper,
looks out upon an alley and its grime,
one window of those where poor scholars live.
The normal world without, and its walking slime.
What pain our scholar felt before he left!
The daily grind of humans and their talk...
So when a world beyond opened its door,
all he did was pack his books and walk.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe