Cthulhu Rising

He is not dead. He is dreaming, and the dream is patient.

Beneath the Pacific, in the drowned stone city of R'lyeh, the Great Old One Cthulhu lies in a death that is not death, waiting for the stars to come right. He is older than the human animal and wholly indifferent to it, a mountain of scale and wing and writhing face who seeps into the dreams of artists and madmen the world over. When the geometry of the heavens finally aligns, the city will surface, the door will open, and he will walk again.

That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.

This is the moment of rising, ringed by the turning zodiac that has measured the wait. Printed heavy on garment dyed cotton, for the ones who suspect the universe was never built with us in mind.