by Z. M. Wilmot
Foul ichor drips from its long silver tongue
As it whispers him promises and beckons him come
The Elder kneels down and remains in one place
Not daring to look at the thing in its face
Mad eyes glow red as they wither and age
And twin tails of snakes lash the air in a rage
Then the hound’s many legs step forward as one
As foul wriggling things chant that his will be done
The hound speaks then with one final demand
And the Elder's head shakes with a quivering hand
And there comes then a slithering, shuddering sound
And the Elder is nowhere ever after to be found
And under the light of the sun’s shaded twin
The hills at the heart of midnight grow dim
And as the glorious sun rises high in the sky
It finds only a lantern, damp hat and a sigh.