Under the graveyard are creatures, obscene,
Desecrating the dead's place of resting.
Conjured visions from a pulp magazine,
Come to life and now unholy questing.
The writer of tales hit close to the mark
When he wrote of the "things living under."
In foul smelling tunnels, fetid and dark,
Ever feasting on that which they plunder.

Hid by the darkness and our belief
Now their number is fast multiplying.
How soon 'til our blindness causes us grief.
Was that Providence gent prophesying?
Perhaps knowing more than he cared to tell,
Glimpses of truth in a story to sell.

© 1997 Ron Shiflet

First Appearance: Mythos Online #6
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