Hronocsh passes

Floating on mithril rivers, above shadow throwing star-hung peaks, the Hronocsh rides.
A cosmic semblance of the dreams spat out into dark spaces between worlds; the jetsom of the universe, reformed and given life, Hronocsh returns to make its dreamers tremble.
Hear it hare along the ancient byways of the air, until the stagnant castles of dead, cratered worlds groan again with fear of re-destruction.
Slicing over cliff-grey moons and singing lullabies to super-novae, the entity is growing.
He comes nearby, near enough to throw a crown to him, every fourteenth century of the Earth’s time. During this desolate hour the virgin cries of a billion children are lost to the agony of the Hronocsh as he siphons their inert souls before conception.
He descends through the soul regions into the spirit clouds, where he drinks astral projections from the creases in the sky.
Next, he will slide lower - ever pulsing, a form in flux - convolving upon the merry dreams and terrors of thought and sleep. A body is almost visible at this time. Gaze upon his reflection in a still lake, from a water’s shore, at the third hour of the new day.
Squint your eyes, squint like you’re peering at the noon sun, and there, glowering like a rotted whale you will spy the wasting Hronocsh sifting through every reflection, every impulse that has come to pass since his last tarriance on our Earthly shores.
Then, within the hour, his wake will pass. A golden wash across the blackness followed by the stain of loss and the monotonous drumbeat of time.
Hronocsh has shimmered on.