He Who Cannot Be Named

Slowly men fell.

Cut deep, He sleeps in their fissures.

Where is our Hell when Heaven's lost all sense of itself?

Gently, woodlice drum His entrance.

Grand like petrichor, the smell of rain, a deluge,

Their carapaces splitting like young mens' helmets,

the toying surge flooding our brains

with seductive visions of waterfalls and swell.

so He who cannot be Named can skip,

a cape draped in blood a thousand years in length slides over the dying

and shuts there eyes.

Dreadful are the boned limbs which end us from Night's night, 

the bottom nothing, the bleeding hood of entropy in the sack of our days.

As centipedes grip my eyelids I see the Jester blink and stop.

Stooped, He smiles, a lottery of fangs inside a bag of chances,

and I stand up to watch Him hop.