Dead leaves of days gone by—now fly:

White with haste, ghouls fly high; Amongst old aisles, where footsteps once fell

Now tombs and tales and lurking madmen hail: Here is where H.P. Lovecraft once walked,

And talked—and wrote gloomy tales…! It is he, who howls now like a ghoul,

In the nights—white with haste; he Who no longer can see the light!

His wings now are wings of dread,

His breathe is naught, cold with death!...

At twilight in the hoary haunted woods,

You can hear a whisper now and then Some gleaming teeth that could be his:

Piercing eyes, waxed with death…!

Dead leaves of days gone by—still fly,

Ruffled with footsteps that once fell, Here is where madness was dispelled…

Where Lovecraft walked and talked:

To his second self!...

#969 12/15/05

Commentary: H.P. Lovecraft wrote basically on the old legends of the world, it was his stepping stone I do believe; the

world that once was of course, was no more, so he said in his many stories, and somehow this old world was lost into, or putout of the physical realm, punished you could say for violating its laws of nature, using black magic, teaching heavenly things to mortals. And so his luring shadows have lived on up unto today; his "Cthulhu Mythology,” defined a new creation of horror you could say, one that is/was not as raw as perhaps Steven King's is today, one much better written I do believe, than any new writes of this genre in our day. Thus, I leave him with this poem in his twilight, and his creepy universe.

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