by Nick Gisburne
The shape is swift, but soundless, as it creeps
To cross beyond the last forbidden gate.
The madness in its mind no longer sleeps,
Awakened by infinity, by fate.
Unspeakable, its name is not a word.
No tongue could ever herald its advance.
It slithers, shifting, smooth, like smoke, unheard,
To breach the wall, to split the dark expanse.
Malevolent, it surges, sliding through,
Towards the light, towards the world it seeks,
And as its evil ripples into view,
The entity, the dream, the darkness, speaks.
No mystery is borne upon its breath.
It whispers of a timeless nightmare: death.
