A Hunter Lay Dreaming

The beasts have risen

and so my hunt begins,
in the dawn, in the dusk,
in the darkest depths of night.

But what is this, this thing I hear,
of droplets, dripping, and dropping;
it is blood, I think, blood of a child
so fresh, innocent, utterly sweet.

My blade is sharp now; hungry,
starving for the delicious sound
of rending flesh, and bone,
but something else too,

Something true, or truth,
hidden beneath my feet

or above my very head,

that sky; a curious shine.

Drip, drop, that sound again;
not blood, not tears, but water,

sinking so deeply out at sea,
a mystery of skies, as a baby cries.

A nightmare, or a dream,
see the graves, and cross the bridge,
pools of blood, moonlight guides;
eight legs beneath a lake.

Behold! A Paleblood sky!

Plip, plop,
Slip, slop,

Splish, splash,

Drip, drop.

We need more eyes, to see,
the sea, the sky, or...
the seas? The skies?
They are one fabric,

the cosmos.

Dream into a dream,

nightmare into a nightmare,

Yharnam beneath the water and,
a clock in the divine.

The water seeps,

and the old blood creeps,
one drop, to the drip,
a splish, and a splash.

Not sleeping, not dreaming,
so says the Moon,
no resting, and no waking,

so says the Moon.

Author's Note

For those who played Bloodborne, or those who enjoy a Lovecraftian horror bent.