Future Lovecraft

There is a geometry of Death.

I have seen its streets and paths

In the records of my father,

From the old 44th.

Krasten’s streets were open

And straight like their minds,

Calling for our wares

And for our human ideas.

So, they baited their minds for the Hounds,

Pack predators from forests outside spacetime.

They came and killed, as did my father,

With comrades, to add another legend to the old 44th.

And as he, the last of the 44th,

Lay dying, his kit listened,

Watched as the last of the Hounds

Loped past the terminus of the city.

Right there, where the mesa ends,

And their blue, frothy Hound blood

Shone under the moons,

Is where they’re kenneled.

The Angles, kinks of rectitude,

Hide them in the Beyond,

And in our world of circles,

There’s always more like the old 44.