Nightmares of a Yellow King
Two roads diverge in a yellow wood,
Each path hideous, foreboding, and flanked by formations
of trees with twisted limbs and gnarled roots.
The whirling cries of whippoorwills form a cacophony throughout the scene.
Down both paths, processions of sullen pilgrims parade toward
A lost and forgotten shore. Its
crashing fetid waters undulating
beneath black stared, and strange moon’d skies.
From this loathsome visage a distant,
cyclopean tower rises from the ocean
its odious walls built of some unknown ebon stone.
Dull groaning grows in the pilgrim’s throats into
a blasphemous gibbering of abhorrent prayers.
Yet they sound strikingly familiar, like the praising to a benevolent god.
From the top of that sinful spire
a profane luminescence shines,
like the radiant light of God,
yet
lacking all warmth, life, and love.
Hither comes their aberrant King,
swaddled in pallid tawny robes.
The lord of Carcosa returns,
to lead his hordes
and usher forth an age of glorious
Insanity!
Two roads diverged in what was once a yellow wood,
The paths bleached, and covered with ash and
the bent, chared corpses of trees.
The whippoorwills cry no more,
as the hordes of the Yellow King march through.
Each legion heralds the doom of the dominion of man.
