(a tribute to H.P. Lovecraft)
I have walked as a stranger through lands of unmeasured time, weaving a path through the opiate valleys in the shadow of twisting, amorphous clouds. I have gazed through unwholesome windows and crouched under strange bridges, drifted sleepily through abandoned houses and inhaled the coming storm from atop unfathomed pinnacles. Enduring the cycle of wildly integrated seasons, I’ve wandered through the ruins of cities renamed by nature’s ascendancy, between maddening labyrinthine hallways and trees of immemorial origin. Beyond these walls the subliminal exhale of alien thunder echoes across twilit peaks, and drops of warm rain pelt a soil that many fear to tread. Here is where ephemeral gardens grow behind curious walls and gates, in erotic courtyards at the vertices of empty cross streets. I have smelled their orchids and tasted their nectar, and heard the calls of the exotic birds that nest within their vines. Here is where my mind has thought the unthinkable, and my lips have been dried by winds that pour from distant nameless grottos.
© 2010 Brandon Gene Petit