Perhaps it's best that few will ever know
The horror of the Thing that calls to me
While dreaming dead within His tomb below
The surface of the vast, unchanging sea.
He calls to me in nightmares as I sleep
And speaks a message better left unheard;
He whispers ancient secrets from the deep
Of which I dare not tell a single word.
He waits long epochs till the stars come 'round
To wake Him from His slumber once again,
And now I wish that I had never found
This Dreaming One who blasts the minds of men.
I fear His hell-spawned visions every night,
For now I know the truth: the stars are right!
© 1997 Christopher B. Hicks
Visit Christopher's Page at Havenshold
First Appearance: Havenshold
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