Falling, slipping, vanishing...

Rain.
Rupashi Bangla on my table.
An ephemeral instant passes by, when I am.
In the sound of the raindrops, in the scent of the manuscript, I can be.

Then, unable to hold on, I begin to quiver.
Relentlessly.
And I think, I become, I look, hear and am predicated.
By the time I write, it is lost.

This shadow of a brief nothing is all that stays.

For HPL

It howls
behind the wolfen shore,
veiling the round moon.
It shrieks
through the needle-sharp leaves
of the conifers
in the clouds.

It burns
in the ancient tentacles
seeking saline shelter
from undersea storms.

And it reeks,
the stench of repressed rot,
distended veins,
nauseous souls.

It shines,
The explosive engine
of all creation.
Burning, blinding, yellow beauty,
scorching my dusty eyes
which wither and bleed
but shed not a tear.