Secret Name, Sacred Angles, Signed in Blood

From Lovecraft's "Dreams in the Witch House"

You shall address me as Nahab.
My earthly moniker is needed
only in faded pages of history,
crumbling to forgetfulness
lost amongst the languid waves of memory.

Two centuries have blinked by
in my fevered search
for greater understanding.
The souls of Arkham's young
burnt away to bolster
my continuing existence.
The gentle flames of life
sacrificed to the bonfire
of my growing power,
tainted life, age denied.

Arkham,
mouldering town of yore,
bedrocked in misery's wondrous horror.
Slightly twisted ones
flock here, drawn by shadowy knowledge
and macabre memories to be absorbed, relived.
Masses of humanity, most worthless
in their selfish insect scrabbling.
A few brighter minds,
sparking almost alien intellectual
worthy of attention from my master,
glorious, primal evil,
the grandest Sultan of demonic realms.

These rarest few
I gather to my withered bosom,
coaxing, guiding, tantalizing
with tempting images of esoteric formulae,
(doorways past the mundane)
elder magicks founded in truth.
Sacred lines and etheric angles
bathed in sweetest violet light.
Notations in tomes inked in blood,
ancient rituals validated
by the discoveries of man.
Non-Euclidean calculus and quantum physics
providing proof of unknown planes
of existence, waiting to be crossed
in the journey to my master's throne.
There, the chosen ones collected
will bathe in alien-rhythmed chanting.
Tossing away earthly chains and sanity
for the chance to sign Azathoth's register of chaos.
Demonic quill dipped in sanguine ink.
Their signature a guarantee,
I will continue...