Oh great Eihort, rise up and consume,
The lost souls that challenge your presence,
Those who see your gelatinous cacoon,
Under lurid rays of phosphorescence.
As spidiferous tendrils emerge,
Traversing upon the blackened soil,
A putrescent, slimy mass-like substance,
Moves within your leprous, festering boil.
A sheath of wrinkled skin opens up,
Faces of dead victims scream in disdain,
Mindlessly shrieking the torment aloud,
Their rank, decayed bodies alive with pain.
The sound of recitation begins,
To chant the song of demented rhyme,
As a myriad of shimmering sparks,
Burst outward from unknown portholes in time.
Minions of foul, crawling lumps descend,
Seperating from the mother mass,
Without mercy they begin their attack,
To drag one to the final feast amass.
© 1998 James
Gruetzmacher
First Appearance: Nightscapes #6
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