The waning planet calls out,
Christening the rising moon that is now afresh.
A pale, distant Earth rotates downward,
Into oblivion above the dismal Lake Of Throth.
Nerve scorching lights descend upon scabrous plateaus,
As cyclopean burst of blinding sparks,
Create kaleidoscopic dreams of endless grandeur.
Silent figures glide across motionless space,
Viper-like, steadfast, pseudomorphic in their reign,
Miring lost souls torn from their useless plight,
Those who have succumbed to the sibilant hissing,
The pestifeous droning, of the servitors of Throk!
© 1998 James
Gruetzmacher
First Appearance: Nightscapes #6
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