(The Festival: Arrival)

The Yuletide season was upon New England as I
walked crushing snow ‘neath the heel of my boot
To the ancient city of my ancient people attending festival of ancient roots
As the ocean crashed pounding on the stones separating sea from ancestral lands
I beheld the city only dreamed of lately this modern son embraced Kingsport’s hand
Once a hundred clans knew the ancient ways of the rites that were held once a century
Now the poor and lonely of the dark tradition the last to bear responsibility
To uphold the promise of the first forefather continue teaching in the ancient way
So they sent me East to the misty dawn to attend the festival of Hallow Day

I saw vanes and steeples, willow trees and graves where the stones were set in 1692
And the tree of legend where my kinsmen hung
as convicted witches which I now know was true

I walked toward the city and I listened — all was still — No Christmas season songs were sung, no candled windowsills
I reasoned these were Puritans, I was not too dismayed since logic said instead of song they likely knelt and prayed
I passed the dim—lit farmhouses while walking to the place
that ancient custom led me to — on Green Lane #8

I must admit I thought it strange that in that fallen snow
No footprints I could find or make above it or below
In anxious haste I knocked
Instantly it opened
Deaf and dumb he motioned
The Festival is soon

He pointed to a table, 3 books sat waiting
I chose the first one (with hesitation)
I read the title (The Necronomicon) inviting me to alchemy
I read with horror the incantations
I closed the book and closed their demonstrations
when handed cloak and hood to keep me warm from Winter’s tear

The time of Festival was here!

(The Festival: Procession)

The candles killed we left the house for streets as quiet as death
to join with many other cloaked and hooded marionettes
And now the streets so crowded you’d expect a mighty roar
but silence was the only sound (which seemed to scare me more)

Down corridors on toward churchyard hill
Eyes of the night cold as ice watching still
Top of the spire seemed to point to a star
Aldeberan seemed so near yet so far

So following my voiceless guide but straying to the rear
I watched the others ooze into that church of yesteryear
When finally I crossed that threshold wond’rinq where they’d gone
I saw the alter’d opened leading to oblivion

Now weak from fear I took my place descending spiral stairs
which tunneled through the very heart of Kingsport unaware
Perhaps a mile maybe two into the crypt
I found a world of decay as I slipped
into a nightmare and on farther down

Desperately seeking escape from this hideous ground
Then suddenly I saw a lurid shimmering of light
A river underground of oily water black as night
And in the middle rose a leprous fire of greenish flame
I watched them as they worshipped it in spirit and in name

(The Festival: Escape)

My subterranean vision shone, a noisome flute did drone
And suddenly the sound of wings ascending from below

The beasts I saw were hybrid things a madness to behold
And in that fire of greenish flame I shivered from the cold
My guide stepped forth to worship and fulfill the ancient game
And all the rest performing rites of long forgotten name
He held the Necronomicon up high for all to see
As one by one each celebrant would mount a winged beast
But not me — I wondered what to do
Could I be a mutiny or just a long forgotten clue?

My host now motioned me to choose a beast to make my flight
But I resisted seeking to escape this hoary rite

Blocked the stairs and grabbed me as his waxen mask did fall
No human head behind it I dove into that river
before the madness of my screams
could bring the charnel legions down to feed on me!

“The nethermost caverns are not for the fathoming
of eyes that see for their marvels are strange and terrific.
Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live
new and oddly bodied, evil the mind that is held by no head.
Happy the tomb where no wizard hath lain and happy the town at night
whose wizards are all ashes

For it is of old rumors that the soul of the devil—bought haste not (from his charnel clay) but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws. ‘Till out of corruption horrid life springs and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and monstrous to plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earths pores ought to suffice

And things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl.”

Final quoted lyric: HP Lovecraft -1923