26 May 2012
He knew not what the thing was for He'd stolen, beaten it from men Who loved the earth and lived the past And found this precious specimen . He kept it safe for many months Until investigations slowed He stashed it under crusty porn Beneath his bed - a precious load.
And in his room with curtains drawn, By lamplight and with borrowed lens He saw the symbols but could not Work out the whos or whys or whens Kidnapped professors never work. They tell you things but make a mess Professor Eric Spindlebeck Brought him only mild success;
The prof, aside from dying fast, Was only helpful as a 'fence;' He helped him 'borrow' ancient texts But most of these made little sense. Before he permanently retired From life, the prof had this to share: It was a Druid artefact Never used - no wear and tear.
(in worlds pressed closely to our own Beyond the veil, eyes turned to see The owner of the artefact; They watched his killings hungrily)
Another expert tied to chair. This time, symbols are the key "They're references to place and time. I've got kids - please set me free!" When this one died in funny founts Or blood upon the bedroom floor, The time to leave was well at hand. He packed a bag and locked the door.
(although he never felt or heard Their bloodlust surge beneath the skin Of paths he walked; the lost ones stalked : As he travelled, they closed in.)
Windscreen wipers shunned the flecks Of Autumn drizzle. What a hole. Dusk countryside loped at his heels Its midnight jaws devour him whole. And then he's striding through wet grass And rainbows scatter in the beam Of flashlight; then he trips upon A turfy groove - the Henge's seam.
Two lanterns make the uprights glow- He almost feels a sense of awe! But once again he's working out just what the artefact is for: It's like a ring, a crown of stone. Perhaps it is some crazy key! He looks for grooves or plinths or holes Or maybe secret passagery .
But nothing's there. He curses loud. Frustrated he is filled with rage. The circled stones - they seem to whisper Seductions from another age.
Slowly, without knowing why, He bends to take the artefact And placing it upon his head, The prison's gone, the stones are cracked.
The centre of the rings drops fast About six feet and comes to rest. He screams as burning glyphs appear Burning deep into his chest.
Then tranquility. Eyes of black. Further earth collapses down Leaving him on spiral steps: A curious killer in his crown.
The stairs surround a central shaft Which plunges metres out of sight And in the far depths, iris-like, He sees a small red disc of light
And so his journey ends and starts, An end to searching, and to doubt. He walks, unwitting, into Hell... And now they're free to venture out.
Hieroclave • Opuss № I