The whisper bears the message of the secret of the void
There is no god who watches you, impatient or annoyed,
But you may wish there was because the reason doesn't flatter,
You're just a speck, a fleck of dirt, upon the face of matter.
So mad poet, take up your pen, write what the voice dictates,
There are no special benizons, no privileging fates,
All that lives, rat, ape or king, goes down into the dust,
And no one cares about the pain, the murders nor the lust.
No more than the fat drunkard, in the toilet of a bar,
Feels any strong concern about two ants beneath his car,
The black ant has the red ant pinned in formic acid pain,
The turning wheel kills both when he drives off into the rain.
Images of the future, which the poet barely grasps,
Convey the emptiness immense, the nightmare of the gaps,
His broken mind attempts to fill the desolating chasm,
With names that make no sense within a churn of protoplasm.
Cthulhu, Yog-sothoth, and all, are broken, turning shards,
Attempts to fill the emptiness behind the falling cards,
Al Hazrad knows the whisper which destroyed his poet's mind,
When you remove the pallid mask, there is no fiend behind.
Nothing plans to seize your soul, nothing craves your fear,
Nothing wants your worship, nothing isn't even there.
In Azathoth the only truth, is no truth can endure,
Around its core of mindless flesh, the daemon pipes encore.
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