SONNETS OF AN ELDRITCH BENT, by W. H. Pugmire“The Hound”
I hear your ceaseless cry in tortured ear
As fate solidifies before my eye.
This Holland hill will be my moonlit bier
On which my mangled corpse will putrefy.
My breastbone is the bed of your icon,
Your amulet composed of antique jade;
That emblem formed in forgotten aeon,
That distant age of which you are one shade.
Ah, Sphinx of Hell, your grin is ever-wide,
It is the final doom I gaze upon.
No paltry god can stall my homicide,
No poetry from Necronomicon.
I take your savage kiss into my heart
As trenchant recompense for arcane art.
“The Haunter of the Dark”
Your lure was one that I could not resist,
And thus I staggered up your high plateau.
A sense of hazard could not be dismissed,
Its presence struck me as opp
