Of the Demon HAR XELAZAL:
First, the odor of old, unopened rooms, a fetor that coats the throat,
A growing groan like the drone of cicadas, overlapping notes,
Hypnotic acoustics that overwhelm in a transfixing din,
Only then does it approach, a thing of insensate skin.
It comes swamped in rotten jonquils, browning yellow petals,
A collar of dying flowers brush against its ashen mandibles.
It casts its ghastly gaze against the fundamental,
It denies time, nullifies light like a cannibal,
Works its pallid hands to make shadow animals.
Unnatural, they arrive to vile life and bite like tangible
Lies from the lips of quisling lovers,
Leaving gruesome wounds, unspeakable flutters
Of blood as the pierced heart thumps,
An idiotic automatic contraction each time it pumps.
A made thing, mounds of dead flesh from the fallen
Stitched and quivering together, draped in rotting pollen.
Golden blooms coat its pale shoulders like saffron light.
It is the fangs of broken truth in the smiling night.
A cyber-ghoul, its face swarming with electronics,
Its giant central eye shines like a shard of onyx.
It scorns the swords of warriors,
Derides the teeth of beasts,
Mocks and laughs at magic,
sneers at prayers and priests.
It chuckles long and hard at charms,
Regards archers with sarcastic laughter.
It knows it cannot be brought to harm,
Not then, nor now, nor hereafter.
It is invincible insanity,
Irrefutable profanity,
Vanity personified
Without honor or humanity.
- from the Propheticum Somnium Hallucinationes AKA The Lasting Death, attributed to Theran Var, High Priest of the Burning Shadow, circa 147 AA (Ante Apocalypsi)
Special acknowledgements: James Thurber and Tomoyasu Hotei
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