I hate the moon
In the spectral summer of narcotic flowers
And humid seas of foliage
I walk by the shallow crystal stream
Resistless to the currents of strange oceans
Swirling away under the arched, carven bridge
Lotos blossoms float along like calm, dead faces
Dropped down from the howling winds of the opiate night
The blossoms stare back with sinister resignation
What the moon brings, what the moon brings
I run right along the shore, maddened ever by the pressing fear
Of unknown things and alluring charnel faces
Down from the lunar-brightened sky, a black condor descends
Upon the reef, beginning to emerge with the ebbing tide
Up from the depths, black spires surface on the sea
Revealing ancient towers of the past: dead, dripping city
Electrifying my body, a new chill washes over me
As the waxing moon unveils the secret of the spires
Jutting from the waves, neither reef nor city
But a black basalt crown of a Cyclopean horror
Shrieking, I fear the hidden face will rise above the waters
To escape I plunge into the stinking shallows where now I sleep
I hate the moon