…of ‘The Hyperborean Mythos’
(In Poetic Prose)
Bells for the Dead
Bells for the dead to
remember those who had once lived!
Souls at peace; souls that walk the earth and never
sleep!
But then all souls, no matter what, never cease—!
Some drift, like wood, with indolent ease,
wherever…
All round the living, in vagueness…;
In folds of fog, veiled in haze—
Hastening along with the same funeral intents from
one graveyard to another—
Avoiding the hazy tunnel of death, and the unwarrantable
fancy of the imps devils, and demons!
Now utterly loss in alienation, perhaps in
overwhelming bewilderment—who’s to say, they walk the same in a ghastly sense
of separation from all the living…
Those who have closed the door in the face of the
Son of God!
Why? They have brought the mystery of evil into
their lives, and evil lies in wait, at their door! The door in the tunnel!
Ask Pope Francis, he knows more!
I saw George Sterling, H.P. Lovecraft, Clark A.
Smith, and a Woman named Nora May French.
A hyperborean chill, invaded my heart; they were
like stale breaths from a tomb…
Strange, so weird, so far back in time, and here
they were, walking the same streets of mine!
Appearing and disappearing, faster than a Haiku
rhyme.
An old fear crept up my spine—: “Who rings the bells”
I asked.
No reply.
“The bells, the bells” I chanted, encroached, “…who
rings the bells for the dead?”
“We can’t tell,” they all said in unison, and
hasten on, as the bells kept ringing!
They could tell, but they wouldn’t, it was as if
they had some cryptic emanation, some enslaving spell—inside of them…
A flaw, an evil fissure as if to say, “Let him see
for himself!”
It sounded simple enough, in a way, but not simple
enough to make my day!
Their eyes like monolithic stones, thus, I left
them, alone.
And then I saw coffin makers; this all brought about
absurd confusion… then I censured: my soul deflated: “Was it I, I whom the
bells rang for?”
“No,” I said to my inner-self, “I’m in a baffled
nightmare!”
So real, it’s hard to bear!
Often, too often one can stumble into the bizarre
of the absurd—
Lest he pray before he sleep.
The bells, the coffin makers, the old macabre
poets, all ludicrous, dismissed logic; but then what?
What was happening?
Now lost in a swirling fog, a light glowed at the
end of a tunnel, a shaft I now was in!
And there appeared three demons, as if out of
nowhere…
Trying to open a ponderous door—
I could see them through a bared window—
Then an angelic being by the name of Sorr’el,
locked and bolted it!
And they behind the door, cried grudgingly with
cadaverous looks.
Then I was taken, elsewhere, far beyond that door
hideous door, by Sorr’el, that I could see no more!
Still in perplexity, with little delay, and burning
memories, slowly the onward light became bright, leaving far behind that dark
entrenching, shadow, and weather-beaten door, that I could see no more!
And the Bells, those death like bells, and all that
had troubled me before: as with those demonic beings with venom fangs and
talons, who had cursed me—
This sinister cycle through death and time, space
and recollections of the past that had set a frightful vitality for my present,
now had passed:
This by no means was easy, ere, since then I have
wondered long and care not to revisit that old passage;
Lo! That old world realm where the demons await to
pull you back, into their banishment—
Where the dead walk the streets, and bells never
cease!
At the time an exasperating riddle, —but back to
the bells to the bells of hell’s vanishment!
If indeed they can unlock that gloomy, ebony door,
they have you forevermore!
As I have learned, I tell you in all earnest and
solemnity: call on the Lord!
#4979/1-3-2016
Reversed Macabre Poetry (in Poetic
Prose)
