When Old Gods Awaken

Spectral steeples in the silver moon gleaming,
Cat's eyes a-glitter in the sepulchral glare,
Rustle of leaves where cold wind goes streaming,
Old house agape with window-frame stare,
Small things that scamper away from the light,
Dark shapes that flutter on the fringes of sight:

From out of our dreams these things have arisen,
Shadowy phantoms in the gibbous moon's sheen.
Old ones grow restless and break from their prison
When strange aeons come and the stars all convene.
Dreams become horror, all saneness forsaken,
When all of the eldritch old gods awaken.

© 1999 Alan Peschke