”A great poet is greater than any king.
Something tapped me on the shoulder
Something whispered, “Come with me,”
“Leave the world of men behind you,
“Come where care may never find you
“Come and follow, let me bind you
“Where, in that dark, silent sea,
“Tempest of the world n’er rages;
“There to dream away the ages,
“Heedless of Time’s turning pages,
“Only, come with me.”
“Who are you?” I asked the phantom,
“I am rest from Hate and Pride.
“I am friend to king and beggar.
“I am Alpha and Omega,
“I was councilor to Hagar
“But men call me suicide.
“I was weary of tide breasting,
Weary of the world’s behesting,
And I lusted for the resting
As a lover for his bride.
And my soul tugged at its moorings
And it whispered, “Set me free.
“I am weary of this battle,
“Of this world of human cattle,
“All this dreary noise and prattle.
“This you owe to me.”
Long I sat and long I pondered,
On the life that I had squandered,
O’er the paths that I had wandered
In the shadow panorama
Passed life’s struggles and its fray.
And my soul tugged with new vigor,
Huger grew the phantom’s figure,
As I slowly tugged the trigger,
Saw the world fade swift away.
Through the fogs old Time came striding,
Radiant clouds were ‘bout me riding,
As my soul when gliding, gliding,
From the shadow into day.
Mine? Pigeons from Hell by Robert E. Howard. Stephen King claims it’s the scariest story he’s ever read as well, so I’m in good company.
I think the real reason so many youngsters are clamoring for freedom of some vague sort, is because of unrest and dissatisfaction with present conditions; I don’t believe this machine age gives full satisfaction in a spiritual way, if the term may be allowed.
When a nation forgets her skill in war, when her religion becomes a mockery, when the whole nation becomes a nation of money-grabbers, then the wild tribes, the barbarians drive in … Who will be our invaders? From whence will they come?
He was a man born out of his time—a strange blending of Puritan and Cavalier, with a touch of the ancient philosopher, and more than a touch of the pagan, though the last assertion would have shocked him unspeakably. An atavist of the days of blind chivalry he was, a knight errant in the somber clothes of a fanatic. A hunger in his soul drove him on and on, an urge to right all wrongs, protect all weaker things, avenge all crimes against right and justice. Wayward and restless as the wind, he was consistent in only one respect—he was true to his ideals of justice and right. Such was Solomon Kane.
Feel free to come see me if you are so inclined! Have a wonderful weekend! Cheers!
If people don’t put clothes on your back and food on your table, who cares what they think.
All fled—all done, so lift me on the pyre;
The feast is over, and the lamps expire.
I am never, in these dreams of ancient times, a civilized man. Always I am the barbarian, the skin-clad, tousle-haired, light eyed wild man, armed with a rude axe or sword, fighting the elements and wild beasts, or grappling with armored hosts marching with the tread of civilized discipline, from fallow fruitful lands and walled cities.