The River

a poem by Matthias Maier

Bild: „FEAR“ von Matthias Maier


In the rivers flood running fast,

a shape came slowly floating past,

from where I stood, staring

with curiosity. As I went nearer

that amorphous Thing I beheld, whose form defies

all sane contours

And mad I went ; screaming in horror.

For the shape was neither dead nor

alive, bloated and distended

and rotten it floated on nigh.

Then the horrid, half-decayed

form reanimated hideously as I stood there

prostrate, unable to move or to

lift a limb.

A stench welled up,

as of a thousend charnel pits

and sepulchres, strangling the grass

and the flowers, befouling them.

The thing reared up slowly and shuffling,

menacing it made some steps

where I stood, certain sounds it uttered,

words full of repulsiveness and wickedness.

The shape then raised a fetid paw, plunging

half-blind forward, where I cowered in frantic fear,

transfixed as by some malevolent will.

My mind went dark and numb, as the odious Thing drew closer

and closer. As I at last regained my senses,

there lingered still that loathsome, foul

odour, that no clean air could vanquish.

Blindly and delirious and half-mad I stumpled

over that befouled river-bank until I could

smell at last again the wholesome air, whilst my head

still swirled and reeled from the minds ordeal.

Thereafter I dared not

to go back, where the grass

and flowers where dead shriveled

as by some vile sorcery.

But for ever after I dared not

to vernture down

that river-bank

And evil dreams thereafter  beset my sleep,

where selfsame shapes bleat and prance

´neath the ghastly glimmering moon

To some malefic figure the make their raucous obeisances,

its hateful eyes leering with at me,

No face the figure shows, but just a silken yellow mask

and on its head a baleful crown sits.

Once I beheld the face that lurks underneath

that foul facade,

With a shriek full of soul-wrenching

anguish I awoke.

Now not even sleep brings surcease

and rest, for I dread those realms

where no waking mind, save a few, ever may tread.

And  where the Elder Gods dance blind and

dumb to the piping of a flute

In the Center of the Cosmos,

where the Demon-Sultan holds it eternal, court

Schreibe einen Kommentar

Social media & sharing icons powered by UltimatelySocial