Violets of the Molten Eye

post-modern origin of chthulhu

For All the Gods of Digging

Out of the Earth’s fragile box

We are delivering the dog-bones

Of childhood burials,

And omnispheres of made-up


Shooting out ideas,

Opening a thousand

          wordless books,

And filtering Autumn winds

Through the sieves of our

          small knowing.

Vapors blow up with each pitch

          we shovel,

And chill covers   

          the world.

The ghosts of cold flame

Engulf us with pale aurae.

There’s a short catch

Of breath in our lungs —

           it drains the sound

                    from our ears,

And constrains us to


There is no longer any time.

post-modern origin of chthulhu
violets of the molten eye

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