Future Lovecraft

You, in your long, grey ships

of cold rationality and hard mathematics,

shimmering along the path of light,

bending time in your starswept path:

Do not imagine yourselves free of madness.

Not the rich, pulsing joy of winedrunk dance,

nor the madness that lets poets speak to stars

and hear songs from the dripping waters

of rain caught upon roofs of steel,

or the cold, silent songs

pulsing from the deep.

Not the madness of high towers,

of concrete poured over pulsing grass,

or the frenzy of human dance,

of instruments and drums,

singers chanting in the dark,

collapsing with the sun.

Those are the insanities of earth,

the madness that only earth and water

can beat into bone and brain.

But the madness of the dark,

the madness of the silent stars,

the madness of the dark matter

that will move upon your ships—

Do not imagine yourselves so free.

Do not imagine that in this darkness,

nothing awaits.

Do not imagine that no one

will hear you scream.

In the spaces between stars,

our tentacles pulse.

We see your grey ships

and thirst.

We eat upon human screams,

and in the shadows of the stars,

we hunger,

hunger.

The bright stars in all their frenzy

hide us well.

We hunger. We hunger.

You cannot imagine.