Posts
{Another advanced post ... 200 words exactly.}
Ghost of Lovecraft here.
Did my prose mirror truth?
I dare not say.
My imagination was too stunted to paint what lies beyond.
I believe that this less material life is our truer one,
and that our vain presence on this transitory globe is
the secondary phenomenon.
I was wandering Thalarion, a synchroni city,
where none return,
where walk only daemons that are no longer sane, who stumble from gaps in reality that oscitate eerily.
These ruins project a diseased miasma as if the very stones are cursed.
The ghost of Samuel Clemens
made his cautious way to me.
Wise he was to be careful, for I am no longer ... human.
Bemused, I watched from the shadows.
He, though ghost, was human still, self-centered in opinion, with lacunae of astounding ignorance.
Clemens said, "You can roll around in your horrors like they were catnip. But Roland is ill. He needs your help."
"Of course I will help."
{I have looked upon all that the universe has to hold of horror,
so that the skies of spring must forever be poison to me.
So should you have breath left over from your prayers for Roland --
sing a canticle for me.}
***
