G’day. This is a bit of silliness I’d been wanting to do for a while — a parody of a poem by Lord Byron, “She Walks in Beauty,” inspired by the ballroom appearance of his cousin by marriage, Lady Wilmot Horton, who at the time was in silver-spangled mourning dress. This parody, of course, will have none of that silly rubbish — I am Troythulu, after all, and eldritch is cool. The words are mine, but the rhythm and cadence come directly from Lord Byron’s work, serving as the skeleton to the piece.
It Stalks in Horror
It stalks in horror, clothed in fright,
Drips nameless slimes, howls dribbling cries;
Through all its worst, its darkest might.
Fleet in its hunting, wings for flight,
Serrated teeth, its rancid bite,
A fell and horrid fate’s surprise.
Accompanied by shades, no less,
Insane spawn grows in morbid grace,
It craves, with writhing tendrilled flesh,
Not dwelling within Time or Space,
Though Death shall come, transcendent Rest,
Its fury, quick, extinct, the Race,
…and to the meek or to the proud,
To serve dark lords, foul, necrous Get.
Scales unbalanced, life that flows,
Can fill the void, strange nourishment,
Old gods at war in realms below,
A King of Shards is imminent.
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