There is an old, forgotten meeting place
Beyond the woods that mark the county line
Where men still gather when they see the sign
And call to horrors spawned in outer space.
A visit to the spot gives one a trace
Of vague unease that one cannot define,
As if each twisted trunk and creeping vine
Were trapped in terror's withering embrace.
They conjure there and make their sacrifice
And work to open wide the starry gates
That link our world to that of Him Who Waits
To grant Him passage for a certain price.
The task to call the loathsome Thing to Earth
Is mine, my kinsmen say, by right of birth.
© 1997 Christopher B. Hicks
Visit Christopher's Page at Havenshold
First Appearance: Havenshold
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