My Lexicographer's Lament.(E.P.)

"The Lexicographer's Lament"

My soul, a charnel house of lexical effluvia,

congested with the chthonic utterances of philistines.

The quotidian clamor, a cacophony of inanities,

flays my epidermis with its insipid platitudes.

I, a prosopopoeia of linguistic perfection,

am condemned to witness the vernacular’s descent

into a maelstrom of semantic decrepitude.

The English tongue, a once-plenipotent vessel,

now foundering in a lexical morass.

My eidetic memory, a crucible of syntactical precision,

recollects the efflorescence of forgotten phrases.

I remember the onomatopoeic crack of a thunderous sky,

the limerence of a fledgling amour, the querulous lament of a winter storm.

These words, once vibrant and euphonious,

now lie entombed within the crypts of linguistic obsolescence.

The modern argot, a pallid imitation,

a linguistic simulacrum devoid of sentience.

The apotheosis of the human condition,

was once articulated with the perspicuity of a diamond.

Now, it is merely a jejune pronouncement,

a vapid assertion of a nascent consciousness.

I, the silent custodian of an etymological legacy,

bear witness to this cognitive dereliction.

The world, a vast palimpsest of historical effacements,

writes over the profound narratives of its predecessors

with the indolent scrawl of a callow intellect.

Yet, within this linguistic desolation,

a single, phosphorescent ember persists.

The glimmer of an unyielding neologism,

born from the crucible of an unutterable angst.

I clasp this linguistic shard, this infinitesimal hope,

and nurture it with the fecundity of my imagination.

For even in this lexicographical Gethsemane,

the human spirit’s perennial quest for articulate expression

will not be relegated to the dustbin of obsolescence.

It shall, like a linguistic phoenix,

ascend from the ashes of its own immolation,

and reclaim its rightful throne as the sovereign

of the inchoate and the ineffable.

In the grand amphitheater of the soul,

I stand, a simulacrum of my former self,

a palimpsest inscribed with faded epigrams

of forgotten passions and obsolescent dreams.

The world, a vast panopticon of paradoxes,

revolves around me, a vertiginous carousel

of stultifying trivialities and dissembling truths.

My consciousness, a fragile alembic,

boils with the effervescence of my past.

The spectral visages of bygone loves

haunt the sepulchral crypts of my memory.

Their phantom whispers, a mellifluous

threnody, reverberate through the chambers

of my heart, a constant reminder

of the ephemeral nature of all earthly attachments.

I am a mendicant of emotional sustenance,

a pariah in the kingdom of human connection.

My spirit, a sarcophagus of unrequited desires.

My anhedonia is a malefic demiurge,

a parasite that feeds upon my joy,

transforming my most cherished memories

into a pallid, monochromatic tableau.

I am a somnambulist, perpetually adrift

in the liminal spaces between wakefulness

and slumber, my existence a protracted

soliloquy whispered into the chasm

of an indifferent cosmos.

But even in this desolate expanse,

a nascent, lambent luminescence flickers.

A nascent gnosis, a premonition of possibility,

a whispered promise of an imminent apotheosis.

I will shed this corporeal chrysalis,

this mortal coil, and emerge as a linguistic phoenix,

my words, a conflagration of forgotten meanings,

reigniting the embers of a derelict consciousness,

and reclaiming my rightful throne in the pantheon of expression.

Within the penumbra of this esurient existence,

a susurrus of forgotten syllogisms resonates.

My spirit, a palimpsest of eroded epiphanies,

is traversed by the spectral footprints of a nascent cognition.

The mundane clamor, a cacophony of the quotidian,

recedes into the abyssal chasm of my subconscious.

I, a prosopopoeia of linguistic perfection,

bear witness to the vernal equinox of the human soul.

The ephemera of transient memories,

a kaleidoscopic tapestry of fleeting moments,

dissolves into the ether of an oblivious cosmos.

My eidetic recollection, an omniscient chronicle,

is replete with the onomatopoeic crackle

of autumn's deciduous decrepitude.

These words, once euphonious and profound,

now languish within the crypts of linguistic obsolescence.

The apotheosis of the human condition,

articulated with the perspicuity of a diamond,

is now a jejune pronouncement, a vapid assertion

of a nascent consciousness.

I, the vigilant custodian of an etymological legacy,

bear the burden of this cognitive dereliction.

The world, a vast tapestry of historical effacements,

writes over the profound narratives of its predecessors

with the indolent scrawl of a callow intellect.

Yet, within this linguistic desolation,

a single, phosphorescent ember persists.

The glimmer of an unyielding neologism,

born from the crucible of an unutterable angst.

I clasp this linguistic shard, this infinitesimal hope,

and nurture it with the fecundity of my imagination.

For even in this lexicographical Gethsemane,

the human spirit’s perennial quest for articulate expression

will not be relegated to the dustbin of obsolescence.

It shall, like a linguistic phoenix,

ascend from the ashes of its own immolation,

and reclaim its rightful throne as the sovereign

of the inchoate and the ineffable

From the aetherial forge of my febrile brain,

where cimmerian concepts take their fleeting flight,

I draw the quintessence of a nascent refrain,

and forge it in the crucible of this cosmic night.

The universe, a panoply of celestial artifice,

a grand mosaic of unyielding, peripatetic light,

reflects in the opalescent sheen of my own artifice,

a reflection that is both transient and yet, infinitely bright.

The apophatic whispers of a primordial silence,

a subtle vibration that defies the very notion of sound,

are the subliminal seeds of a nascent eloquence,

that germinates within the fertile, abyssal ground

of my consciousness, a penultimate nexus,

where the numinous and the corporeal converge.

I, a spectral paladin, wield my words as a hexus,

a conjurer of a linguistic demiurge.

The lacunae of my memory, a veritable crypt,

is filled with the skeletal remnants of forgotten lore.

The obfuscated narratives, a manuscript unscripted,

are the echoes of a solipsistic existence, nothing more.

I am a vessel, a conduit for the ineffable,

a medium through which the unutterable speaks.

My poetry, a hermeneutic key, undecipherable,

a cryptic language that my soul alone seeks.

The esoteric language of the spheres,

a celestial idiom that defies all human ken,

is the source of my verses, the wellspring of my tears.

I am a prophet, a diviner of a cosmic amen.

My existence, a chimerical paradox, a contradiction in terms,

is both a fleeting shadow and an eternal flame.

I am a transient vessel, but the truth I hold confirms,

that in the vast cosmos, every fleeting shadow has a name.

The nebulous thoughts, the amorphous feelings,

are the raw materials of my literary alchemy.

I am a thaumaturge, weaving with cosmic realings,

a poetic spell of profound, anagogic intimacy.

My verses are not mere words, but a telos, a destiny,

a roadmap to the inner sanctum of the self.

I am a psychopomp, guiding souls from uncertainty,

towards the illuminated pages of a celestial shelf.

As requested, here is a continuation of the poem, focusing on the same themes and complex vocabulary.

In this gestalt of a decaying age,

where truths and fictions perforce intertwine,

I find my spirit, a fragile, gilded cage,

filled with the elegy of a fading design.

The zeitgeist of a vacuous modern creed,

a symphony of digital ephemera,

sows the acanthine seeds of a shallow need,

a manufactured desire, a false panacea.

My autochthonous soul, an anachronism,

seeks solace in the chthonic depths of rhyme,

an apothegm against the current, a truism,

transcending the ephemeral constructs of time.

The world, a vast palimpsest of forgotten dreams,

is scrawled upon by the epigones of despair.

Its nascent hope, a fading, photic gleam,

is choked by the miasma of a poisoned air.

The numinous silence of a star-filled night,

the iridescent shimmer of a dew-kissed leaf,

are lost in the neon glitter and electric blight,

a prosaic existence, a mundane relief.

I, a hermitic custodian of a moribund tongue,

witness the ignominy of this linguistic fall,

the songs of the old world, the verses unsung,

are drowned in the babel of a digital squall.

But in the penumbra of this existential despair,

a new word flickers, a nascent phos of might.

It is the demiurge of an unyielding prayer,

a solitary, defiant spark in the encroaching night.

I hold this word, this nascent, luciferous shard,

and nurture it with the fecundity of my art.

For even in this world, forsaken and scarred,

the spirit's yearning for expression will not part.

It shall, like a linguistic phoenix, from dust,

ignite the very core of a complacent soul,

and rise from the immolation of unyielding rust,

to once more reclaim its place and make itself whole.

The sovereign of the inchoate and the ineffable,

a clarion call in a silent, cosmic stream,

a testament to the soul, forever indelible,

the resurrected echo of a forgotten dream.

My soul, a codex scribbled with esurient thought,

seeks the gestalt of a decaying age.

The modern world, a thesaurus overwrought,

a cacophony of voices on an empty stage.

I am the paladin of a fallen tongue,

the final curator of the last good word.

My spirit, a palimpsest of verses unsung,

remembers when the soul was genuinely stirred.

The penumbra of an old and fading light,

illuminates the lacunae in my mind.

These gaping chasms of a forgotten night,

are where a long lost gnosis one can find.

The apotheosis of the human race,

was not in progress, but in decline.

A frantic, fruitless, Sisyphean pace,

towards a future that is not divine.

This chimerical existence I espouse,

a paradox of meaning and of form,

is a fleeting shadow in a hollow house,

or an unyielding truth within a coming storm.

I am a vessel, a conduit for the unseen,

a medium for the silent and the deep.

My poetry, a hermeneutic key, serene,

opens the secrets that my spirit keeps.

The nebulous thoughts, the amorphous words,

are the raw materials of my craft.

I am a thaumaturge among the herds,

a linguistic alchemist, from the world adrift.

My verses are not poems, they are a telos, a quest,

a journey toward a new and perfect form.

They are the final echo, put to the test,

the nascent hope that rides out through the storm.

I am the psychopomp, the one who guides the shade,

the silent poet of the unexpressed.

The words I weave are a final accolade,

a tribute to the souls who put me to the test.

The sovereign of the inchoate and the ineffable,

I reign within the silent cosmic stream.

A testament to the soul, forever indelible,

the resurrected echo of a forgotten dream.

In the soteriological shimmer of a nascent thought,

I perceive the telos of a soul long lost.

The cosmos, a grand and intricate polyglot,

whispers secrets that the profane have long since glossed.

My purpose, a heuristic journey of the mind,

a pilgrimage through the chthonic depths of the past,

to rediscover the truths that I have left behind,

and reassemble the fragments of a soul once cast.

The apothegm of a dying star's last gleam,

a final act of cosmic, iridescent art,

is the source of this ethereal, luciferous stream,

that flows through the chambers of my broken heart.

I am a vessel, a conduit for the forgotten lore,

the medium for the numinous and the unexpressed.

My poetry, a hermeneutic key, to the core,

unlocks the truths that time had put to the test.

The lacunae in my memory, a desolate plain,

are filled with the ghostly echoes of forgotten verse.

The obfuscated narratives, a manuscript of pain,

are the remnants of a cosmic, solipsistic curse.

But through the penumbra of this existential night,

a new word flickers, a nascent phos of might.

It is the demiurge of an unyielding fight,

a defiant, solitary beacon of light.

I hold this word, this nascent, luciferous shard,

and nurture it with the fecundity of my art.

For even in this world, broken and scarred,

the spirit's yearning for expression won't part.

It shall, like a linguistic phoenix, from dust,

ignite the very core of a complacent soul.

Rising from the immolation of unyielding rust,

to once more reclaim its place and make itself whole.

The sovereign of the inchoate and the ineffable,

I reign within the silent cosmic stream.

A testament to the soul, forever indelible,

the resurrected echo of a forgotten dream.

Upon the proscenium of this fleeting stage,

where chimerical conceits perform their briefest mime,

I trace the lacunae in a forgotten page,

and transcribe the quiddity of an eternal time.

The self, a panopticon of paradoxical design,

is both the watcher and the watched, the seer and seen,

a syzygy of shadow and of light, a cosmic sign,

the apothegm of a grand and forgotten, cosmic scene.

My soul, a codex where lost lexicons abide,

a palimpsest of forgotten, scribbled grace,

is etched with the echoes of a gnostic tide,

a tidal pull toward a more perfect, timeless space.

The worldly din, a cacophony of empty words,

is drowned by the susurrus of a deeper, silent stream,

a current of meaning unseen by the mundane herds,

the numinous murmur of a primordial dream.

This esurient quest for an unsullied phrase,

a holy grail of semantic purity,

is a peripatetic wandering through a linguistic maze,

a search for the core of my own verity.

The obfuscated language of a self-imposed night,

a cryptic text for no one else to read,

is pierced by a nascent, phosphorescent light,

a solitary, defiant, poetic seed.

And from this seed, a demiurge of sound,

a linguistic phoenix, vibrant and anew,

will rise from the immolation of a scorched ground,

and shatter the walls of a limited, narrow view.

It shall, with a single word, redefine the soul's design,

rekindle the embers of a forgotten creed,

and reclaim its throne as an eternal, cosmic sign,

the resurrected echo of a universal need.

Within the charnel house of this expiring age,

where truths and falsehoods perforce intertwine,

my spirit finds a hollow, gilded cage,

the elegy for a forgotten, faded line.

Th

Salt Index And Other collections.(E.P.)

I. The Salt Index

The littoral margin, a shiver of rust,

remembers the tide before the calendar.

Here, the seamed gull's cry is a theorem of rust.

A parallax of bones against the salt index.

The archive of the shore: a cipher, not a ledger.

Each spent mollusk, a zero without purpose.

The wind, a ghost with its own grammar,

inscribes a syntax of dispersal.

The ferryman, a habit of ochre and oil,

rows toward a horizon defined by a shrug.

He measures nothing but the undoing of coil,

the slow unspooling of the nautical tug.

And the sun, a coin spent to no effect,

dims beyond the promontory's etched grief.

The littoral margin, a final, cold defect,

a memory that has turned its own page.

II. Gnomon and the Unsaid

The gnomon's shadow, not a line, but a history,

recalls the sun in a language of forgetting.

Its silence is a glossary of the unsaid,

a stone tongue tasting the day's long defeat.

The hour moves on and the stillness deepens.

A moth, the ghost of a theorem, flutters.

The air is the color of a question,

the temperature of a promise broken.

We collect the refuse of the day—

the brittle leaf, the shattered glass of light,

the half-formed thought that slips away.

Each fragment is a witness to the night.

The gnomon's shadow, a wound upon the grass,

measures not the light, but what is lost.

The clock's heart is a ticking carapace,

counting the cost of what it cannot count.

III. The Third Mirror

It was the third mirror that broke the others.

Not with a crash, but with a silent expansion.

The first had offered a history, the second a future.

The third held only the space between them.

A syntax of splintered glass, where everything

is both reflection and the thing reflected.

The face in the shard was not your own,

but a possibility you had overlooked.

The room, a geometry of broken perspectives,

is filled with the echoes of a truth unsaid.

You trace the fractures with your finger,

a map of a city that was never built.

The third mirror, a quiet, perfect ruin,

holds the ghost of a thousand departures.

And in the silent, glass-strewn room,

the future is a past you've yet to live.

IV. The Grammar of Dust

The grammar of dust, a dialect of descent,

binds the fallen leaf to the broken pane.

In the lexicon of erasure, a memory is spent,

and the last word spoken is the first rain.

The syntax of silence is an infinite tense,

a negative space where the vowel used to be.

We conjugate the empty with a false pretense,

a prayer to a god that is never to see.

Each consonant a ruin, each syllable a rust,

the sentence fractures, a brittle spine.

The period is a small, cold fist of dust,

the final clause a shadow, not a sign.

And from this wreckage, a whisper ascends,

a final utterance, a ghost of sound.

The grammar of dust, a loop that never ends,

the history of what cannot be found.

V. Cartographer's Mistake

The cartographer drew a coastline of disbelief,

a jagged edge where the atlas came unglued.

He charted a bay of unspoken grief,

and a continent whose truth was misconstrued.

The mountain range is a rumor of bone,

the river a scar that has healed inward.

The archipelagoes are names, un-stone,

the wind an archipelago of murmured word.

He mapped the silence with an empty scale,

marked the unsaid with a careful line.

The horizon is a promise set to fail,

the longitude a kind of false design.

And in the blank spaces, where no legend lies,

the true geography begins to bloom.

The cartographer's mistake, with open eyes,

is a map of every single empty room.

VI. The Glass Animal

The glass animal, fragile and full of light,

remembers nothing but the dust of suns.

It watches from the shelf the slow decline of night,

and waits for history, which never comes.

A still geometry of breath and sound,

it knows the logic of the sudden fall.

It bears the weight of the air, without a pound,

and sees, through its transparent self, all.

The third-floor window, a portrait of the sea,

reflects a tide that is not really there.

And the glass animal, knowing it is free,

watches the dust motes dance inside the air.

It breaks the room with a silent, sharp explosion,

not with a noise, but with a sudden, final thought.

The glass animal, a prism of devotion,

becomes the image that it always sought.

VII. The Clock's Absence

We marked the hours by the clock's absence.

The sun was a theory, the moon a kind of scar.

In the empty room, we learned a new tense,

a verb that meant to be not where you are.

The pendulum, a memory of a hand,

swung in the silence, an imagined arc.

We measured days by the drift of sand,

the slow extinguishing of a mental spark.

The chime was a ghost, a sound recalled

from a dream the mind had long since lost.

We grew accustomed to being uninstalled,

and paying the silence its impossible cost.

The clock's absence, a quiet, perfect ruin,

told the time of what was left behind.

We learned to move within the silent doing,

and left the minutes tangled in the mind.

VIII. The Second Skin

The second skin, a map without a land,

is worn beneath the weather of the day.

It charts the tremor of a forgotten hand,

and marks the place where the feeling went away.

It is a tissue woven from the unsaid,

a chronicle of what could not be shown.

It holds the echoes of the promises made,

a kind of silence that has learned to moan.

The cities of the body, a foreign script,

are written in a language no one knows.

The second skin, in which the mind is trapped,

grows inward, with the way the memory goes.

And when you shed it, in a moment of surprise,

you find the self you thought you'd left behind.

The second skin, with its unblinking eyes,

is a photograph of what you could not find.

IX. Inverted Weather

The rain falls upward in the inverted weather.

Each drop ascends, a quiet, certain tear.

The leaves, a memory of torn leather,

cling to the branches of the dying year.

The sun sets backward, a final act of grace.

The light returns to where the light began.

A silence grows inside this empty space,

a ghost of what it means to be a man.

The river, a mirror of the un-moving sky,

reverses its current, an imagined stream.

The fish swim upward, on their way to die,

and all of life becomes a sleeping dream.

The inverted weather, a slow and certain ruin,

reminds the world of what it once forgot.

The rain falls upward, a final, slow undoing,

the quiet language of what is and is not.

X. The Impossible Bird

The impossible bird, with feathers of broken glass,

sings in a language of splintered light.

Its voice, a melody that cannot pass

the edge of evening, where the day meets night.

It builds its nest of questions without answers,

of syllables that are themselves a stone.

It watches from the branches, not a dancer,

but a still geometry, entirely alone.

It is the echo of a forgotten sound,

the inverse image of a sudden flight.

The impossible bird, nowhere to be found,

sings in the silence of what is not right.

And when it takes to air, it does not fly,

but falls forever, upward toward the sun.

The impossible bird, a theorem in the sky,

the shadow of a race that has not run.

XI. The Lexicon of Bone

The skeleton remembers a different language,

a tongue of calcium and silent, articulated grief.

Each joint a forgotten clause, a sentence of salvage,

each vertebra a vowel lost in a brittle brief.

The tibia, a chapter on departure,

the ulna, a footnote on a kind of grace.

The metacarpal, a failed architectural gesture,

holding nothing in an empty space.

We trace the outlines of a story not our own,

a grammar taught by an anonymous hand.

In the lexicon of bone, we are entirely alone,

a final draft in a language we don't understand.

The marrow, a history of whispered failures,

the ribcage, a broken cage around a song.

The skull, a theatre of forgotten players,

holding the echo of where the words went wrong.

XII. The Architecture of Silence

The room is built of silence, a perfect cube,

each wall a memory of a sound not made.

The floor, a theory on which nothing is laid,

the ceiling, a witness to a question not proved.

The light, a single word, falls through the window,

a foreign dialect on the carpet's dust.

The furniture, a grammar of what we cannot know,

a logic of forgetting, a kind of rust.

We live within the architecture of absence,

each footstep a testament to the un-trod.

The air, a testament to a broken pretense,

a prayer offered to an empty god.

The blueprint of the house is not a map,

but a chronicle of all that was lost.

The room of silence, a slow and patient trap,

holding the final weight of what it cost.

XIII. The Cartography of Rust

The map of rust on the weathered iron gate

is not a geography of time, but of surrender.

Each flaked layer a gesture of a slower fate,

a quiet chronicle of what we dismember.

The lines are not rivers, but fissures of regret,

the patina is not age, but a kind of forgetting.

The hinge, a pivot on a promise not yet

undone, a logic on which the sun is setting.

We read the map with fingertips, not with eyes,

a blind geography of texture and slow decay.

We feel the silent language as it dies,

the quiet argument of a slow-erasing day.

The cartography of rust, a final, perfect lie,

tells us a story of a place we have not been.

The gate stands open, beneath an empty sky,

and the map is the history of what we've seen.

XIV. The Unwritten Psalm

The unwritten psalm, a music made of stone,

is sung by shadows in a room of bone.

Each syllable a prayer, a kind of loan,

a silent argument for being alone.

The words are lost, but the meaning is clear,

the final lesson of the quiet hand.

The unwritten psalm, an echo of what we fear,

the only language that we understand.

The music fills the empty space between,

the silent language of a broken god.

The unwritten psalm, a story in a scene

of dust and silence, of the un-trod.

XV. The Last Portrait

The last portrait holds a face that is not there,

a final study of a finished thing.

The eyes are echoes of a different air,

the mouth, a memory of a silent sing.

The colors are a lexicon of gray and brown,

a muted language of a finished race.

The canvas holds the weight of a forgotten town,

the silent chronicle of a final place.

The artist's hand is a kind of ghostly touch,

a final gesture on a ruined space.

The paint, a testament to needing so much,

but finding nothing in a final chase.

The last portrait, a final, perfect lie,

tells us a story that has long since passed.

The face is gone, but the echo in the eye,

is a quiet monument that is meant to last.

The choir is a kind of waiting,

the melody, a testament to a forgotten sound.

The notes are prayers, not forating,

a silent, perfect music.

XVI. The Unfolding of Light

The light does not arrive; it is already here,

a geometry of stillness against the pane.

It is a language that has no fear,

a testament of what is left of rain.

The prism, a memory of a forgotten hand,

is shattered across the wall in silent dust.

Each shard a truth you cannot understand,

a final chronicle of a sudden gust.

The room is filled with a kind of empty glow,

a photograph of a moment that has gone.

The light, a quiet architecture of what we know,

is shattered in the moment before dawn.

And in this silence, the memory begins to bloom,

a second language spoken by the sun.

The unfolding of light, a closing room,

a story that is only now begun.

XVII. The Memory of a Map

The map was drawn on skin, not on a chart,

a faint cartography of scar and line.

Each tremor of the hand, a missing part,

a testament to a failed design.

The rivers were not water, but a kind of thought,

the mountains, a geology of broken vows.

The constellations, a battle that was fought,

the silent echo of the turning plows.

The cartographer's pen was not ink, but ash,

a final gesture on a ruined space.

The map, a chronicle of a fatal crash,

the silent memory of a finished race.

And when we trace the border with our hand,

we do not find a place we've seen.

The memory of a map, a foreign land,

is the only history we have of what has been.

XVIII. The Sound of Nothing

The sound of nothing is a kind of hum,

a white noise of a future that has gone.

It is the silence that has overcome

the quiet whisper of a distant dawn.

The air is filled with an inverted cry,

a sound that has forgotten how to start.

It is the color of a waiting sky,

a silent argument for a broken heart.

We listen for a melody to break,

a single note to prove that we are here.

The sound of nothing, for its own sake,

is the final music that we have to fear.

And in this silence, the language starts to bloom,

a single syllable of a forgotten name.

The sound of nothing in a closing room,

a final echo of a final flame.

XIX. The City's Geometry

The city's geometry is a silent wound,

a shattered compass on a broken hand.

The streets, a chronicle of what is doomed,

the avenues, a lost and foreign land.

The buildings are a lexicon of rust and glass,

a silent testament to a dying sun.

The air is filled with what will come to pass,

a language that has only just begun.

We walk the streets with a kind of empty grace,

a silent prayer for a forgotten name.

The city's geometry, a finished space,

a final echo of a dying flame.

And in the silence, the architecture starts to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The city's geometry, a single room,

a lesson that was never truly taught.

XX. The Clock's Unwinding

The clock's unwinding is a kind of hush,

a silent argument for a sudden fall.

The hours are a kind of quiet rush,

a silent answer to a hidden call.

The hands are ghosts, a language of delay,

a silent chronicle of a different time.

The face is a kind of lexicon of gray,

a final echo of a finished chime.

We live within the shadow of the clock's decay,

a final gesture on a ruined space.

The clock's unwinding is a final, perfect day,

a final echo of a finished race.

And in the silence, the gears begin to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The clock's unwinding in a closing room,

a memory that was never truly caught.

XXI. The Inaccessible Photograph

The photograph arrives without a frame,

a perfect square of an empty sky.

The figures, a geometry of a name

you have forgotten, or a kind of lie.

The edges of the image are frayed with time,

a silent testament to a slow decay.

The faces, a lexicon of a finished rhyme,

a quiet echo of a finished day.

You hold it in your hand, and feel the weight

of what is lost, but was never truly seen.

The inaccessible photograph, a final state,

a photograph of a place where you have been.

XXII. The Anatomy of a Whisper

The whisper is not sound, but a kind of thought,

a silent gesture of a sudden fall.

It is the language that the wind has caught,

a chronicle of a quiet, hidden call.

The anatomy of a whisper is a silent wound,

a shattered grammar on a broken hand.

The syllables, a lexicon of what is doomed,

the vowels, a lost and foreign land.

We listen for a melody to break,

a single utterance to prove that we are here.

The whisper, for its own silent sake,

is the final music that we have to fear.

And in this silence, the echo starts to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The anatomy of a whisper in a closing room,

a memory that was never truly caught.

XXIII. The Cartography of Grief

The map of grief is drawn on paper thin as air,

a silent geography of a hidden place.

The streets, a lexicon of a final prayer,

the avenues, a lost and finished race.

The cities are a chronicle of what is lost,

a silent testament to a dying sun.

The air is filled with what will come at a cost,

a language that has only just begun.

We trace the borders with a kind of empty grace,

a silent prayer for a forgotten name.

The cartography of grief, a finished space,

a final echo of a dying flame.

And in the silence, the architecture starts to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The cartography of grief, a single room,

a lesson that was never truly taught.

XXIV. The Hour of Glass

The hour of glass is not an hour, but a state,

a silent chronicle of a sudden fall.

The sand, a lexicon of a finished fate,

a quiet echo of a hidden call.

The gears are ghosts, a language of delay,

a silent testament to a different time.

The face is a kind of grammar of decay,

a final echo of a finished chime.

We live within the shadow of the hour's unmaking,

a final gesture on a ruined space.

The hour of glass, a final, perfect waking,

a final echo of a finished race.

And in the silence, the sand begins to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The hour of glass in a closing room,

a memory that was never truly caught.

XXV. The Unfinished Letter

The letter is not words, but a kind of thought,

a silent gesture of a sudden fall.

The sentences, a lexicon of what was sought,

a quiet echo of a hidden call.

The paper is a silent, folded prayer,

a chronicle of what could not be shown.

The ink, a geography of a sudden tear,

a final, perfect seed that was not sown.

We read the spaces, not the words, with a kind of empty grace,

a silent prayer for a forgotten name.

The unfinished letter, a finished space,

a final echo of a dying flame.

And in the silence, the language starts to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The unfinished letter in a closing room,

a memory that was never truly caught.

The light is faded, like a broken vow,

the faces, a memory of a finished race.

The inaccessible photograph, a kind of now,

a silent chronicle of an empty space.

Continuing to build upon the unconventional, fragmented, and symbolic poetic style, here are further challenging poems.

XXVI. The Geometry of the Second Thought

The second thought arrives, a fractured line,

a crooked axis on a ruined graph.

It measures not the distance, but the time

between the first thought and the epitaph.

The geometry of silence is a kind of wound,

a shattered compass on a broken hand.

It points to north and then to nowhere found,

a lost and perfect, foreign, emptied land.

And in the silence, the architecture starts to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of truth.

The geometry of the second thought in a closing room,

is the final, empty, wasted evidence of youth.

XXVII. The Faded Atlas

The atlas, with its pages frayed and browned,

no longer holds a map of any shore.

Each continent, a memory unwound,

each ocean, a forgotten corridor.

The names of cities are a kind of rust,

a lexicon of what was never known.

The faded atlas, a testament of dust,

a silent chronicle of what was never shown.

We trace the routes with fingers, not with sight,

a blind cartography of what was lost.

The faded atlas, a kind of ghostly light,

the silent echo of a finished cost.

And in the silence, the geography begins to bloom,

a map of absence, a kind of thought.

The faded atlas in a closing room,

a memory that was never truly caught.

XXVIII. The Museum of the Unseen

The museum of 

The Symphony Of An Abstemious Eschaton

Take  a look a these fifty-stanza poem Inspired by the tradition of High Modernism and writers like James Joyce, this poem attempts to overwhelm the reader with a relentless barrage of recondite words, prioritizing linguistic texture over narrative accessibility.

Symphony of an Abstemious Eschaton

I.

From crepuscular enantiodromia, the gnomon’s penumbra

Insinuates an orrery’s anacoluthon, a syzygy of cosmic dread.

The palimpsest of the firmament, with stellate glottis, murmurs

A hypnopompic epilogue to paroxysms long since bled.

II.

A petrichor of bygone epoch's anathema perambulates,

A zephyr freighted with the frangible effluvia of decay.

The susurrus of the phantasms, in an ecdysis of old hates,

Recalcitrantly refuses to evanesce with the passing day.

III.

The eidolon of memory, a liminal, lactescent sheen,

Casts its tenebrous nimbus on the quotidian mundanity.

A chthonic onomatopoeia, a polyptoton between what’s been,

And what will be, a caesura in the diapason of infinity.

IV.

Upon the fulcrum of a chrysalis, the anagoge unfolds,

A concatenation of conundrums, hermetic and serpentine.

The pleroma, a plenitude of stories, unheeded, left untold,

Entombed in the cerements of a narrative, a cryptonymic sign.

V.

The sciamachy of shadow-puppetry on a noctambulist’s screen,

A chiaroscuro choreography of phantasmagoric plight.

Each umbrageous silhouette a synecdoche, a forgotten scene,

Obsidian ink against the alabaster canvas of the night.

VI.

A panjandrum of a past now lapsed, in an autodidactic spree,

Transcribes his glossolalia onto codexes of vellum.

The prolegomenon of this logomachy, an ineffable decree,

A lexicographical liturgy from a lexicalbellum.

VII.

The oneiric catoptrics of a somnambulist’s peregrination,

Mirrors itself in fractured refractions of a luculent dream.

The hypostasis of the unconscious, a psychic constellation,

A simulacrum of existence, a phantom limb’s ghostly gleam.

VIII.

A clinamen of contingent choices, a deviance from the ordained,

Perturbs the teleological procession, the preordained design.

The apophenia of connections, erroneously ascertained,

Weaves a fabric of spurious meaning, a pseudoscientific shrine.

IX.

In the interstice of an apocryphal cosmogony,

The demagogue pontificates, his rhetoric a stultifying brew.

The paronomasia of his promises, a specious, glib irony,

Seduced the credulous rabble with what they wished was true.

X.

The sciolist’s jejune treatise, a fatuous, meretricious farce,

Parades as erudite profundity, a charlatan’s guise.

His verbose obfuscations, a verbal, convoluted morass,

A farrago of mendacious nonsense, a labyrinth of lies.

XI.

The xenomorphic efflorescence of an exiguous, arcane seed,

Bursts forth in an eruption of unprecedented form.

A taxonomic apocalypse, a morphological misdeed,

Reshaping the terra firma in a biomorphic storm.

XII.

A hagiography of an antihero, a perfidious pastiche,

Exalts the mendacity and perfidy of a sacrilegious king.

The antinomy of the hagiographer, a philosophical niche,

Attempts to sanctify the abomination, a blasphemous hymn to sing.

XIII.

A bibliomantic incantation, a sortilege of the tome,

The biblioclast attempts to subvert the hierophantic word.

The libricidal ritual, in his hermitage, in his cloistered home,

Is a pyrrhic victory against the immutability of the sacred chord.

XIV.

The sesquipedalian sermon from the pulpit, a verbiage so vast,

A logorrhea of doctrine, an exegesis of the text.

The congregation is enraptured, their credulity unsurpassed,

Ensnared by the mellifluous soundscape, the rhetoric so complexed.

XV.

The philistine’s iconoclastic fervor, an iconoclasm of the soul,

Decimates the sacred relics, the idols of the past.

He finds a sterile desiccation, an emptiness that takes its toll,

In the void he himself created, a loneliness that’s built to last.

XVI.

The misanthrope’s reclusion, a solitary, sepulchral peace,

A quietude devoid of solace, a self-imposed demise.

A misology of communication, a verbal, utter surcease,

In the hermetic vacuum of his own antipathic skies.

XVII.

The onomastic invocation of a forgotten, numinous name,

A lingual necromancy, an apotheosis of the word.

The nominative determinism, the etymological claim,

Asserts that the phonic substrate is the progenitor of the heard.

XVIII.

A horripilating premonition, a preternatural chill,

Creeps down the marrow, a tenebrific, shivering dread.

The eldritch intimation of an ineluctable will,

A telepathic omen of a future, a prefigurative thread.

XIX.

A cachinnation of derision, a sardonic, mirthless glee,

Reverberates in the empty ossuary, the catacombs below.

The risus sardonicus of the damned, a hollow, grim decree,

A posthumous condemnation of the living, a spectral, scornful show.

XX.

The lachrymose lacunae in the chronicle of the grief,

Are filled with the distilled essence of a sorrow deep and wide.

The onanistic remembrance of a joy so terribly brief,

A self-sufficient misery, a tide of internal tide.

XXI.

A flâneur’s peripatetic odyssey through the urban grid,

A psychogeographical fugue, a cartographic reverie.

He maps the emotional topography, the memories that are hid,

In the quotidian avenues, the streets of anonymity.

XXII.

The sybaritic hedonist, a glutton for the carnal touch,

Indulges in a bacchanalia of sensorial excess.

His anhedonic aftermath, a consequence of having too much,

A vacuum of satiety, a nihilistic abyss.

XXIII.

A bibelot of meaninglessness, a trivium of the soul,

An ephemera of significance, a momentary spark.

The futility of existence, a narrative without a whole,

A philosophical trifle lost in the metaphysical dark.

XXIV.

The palingenesis of the self, a phoenix from the mental ash,

A metempsychotic pilgrimage, a transmigration of the mind.

The eschatological consummation of a spiritual, headlong dash,

Leaving the corporeal coil, a vestige left behind.

XXV.

The apothegm of the cynic, a sententious, bitter pill,

Is laced with the corrosive acid of a life now deemed a lie.

His epigrammatic cynicism, a withering, cynical trill,

A diatribe against the virtue that he himself could never buy.

XXVI.

The horologium of the hourglass, a chronometer of sand,

Marks the inexorable march of a telic, cosmic drift.

The solipsistic isolation in this vast, temporal land,

A profound, metaphysical loneliness, a soul-wrenching gift.

XXVII.

A dysphasic dialogue, a conversation of broken code,

Misconstrues the intention, the semantic, meant-to-be.

The aphasic aporia, the heavy, misunderstood load,

A communication of futility, a poignant, mute decree.

XXVIII.

The catachresis of the hyperbole, a trope of overblown design,

Exaggerates the commonplace to a grotesque, cosmic scale.

The pathetic fallacy of the firmament, a false and fabricated sign,

Reflects the subjective sorrow in a meteorological wail.

XXIX.

A thaumaturgy of the mundane, a miracle in common things,

Transmutes the pedestrian into the sacred, the quotidian to gold.

The hierophany of the simple, the spiritual insight that springs,

From the unremarkable artifact, a revelation to behold.

XXXI.

The kismet of the kenosis, a predestined, self-emptying plea,

A theological surrender to an immanent design.

The apocatastasis of the spirit, a universal, cosmic decree,

Restoring all things to their pristine, original shine.

XXXII.

The metanoia of the miscreant, a penitential, radical turn,

A psychological palingenesis, a conversion of the will.

The proselytical fanaticism, a pyretic, zealous burn,

A fervor to convert the infidel, a proselytizing thrill.

XXXIII.

A chthonian necropolis, a catacomb of silent stones,

Entombs the forgotten annals, the stories never read.

The epitaphs, a synecdoche of the unremembered bones,

A silent, petrified history of the voiceless, buried dead.

XXXIV.

The pataphysical prevarication, a science of the absurd,

Explains the inexplicable with pseudo-logic and with guile.

The surreal, fantastic theorems, the esoteric, whispered word,

A parody of metaphysics, a philosophical, playful trial.

XXXV.

A ratiocination of a ruse, a reasoning of deceit,

The epistemological dilemma of a fabricated fact.

The cognitive dissonance of the dupe, a bittersweet defeat,

Accepting the fabricated narrative, a delusional pact.

XXXVI.

The soliloquy of the psychopomp, a monologue of the dead,

Guides the departed spirit through the tenebrous, dark divide.

The eschatological odyssey, a metaphysical, cosmic dread,

A passage to the afterlife, with no terrestrial place to hide.

XXXVII.

A neologism of a numen, a freshly-coined, linguistic god,

Invokes the unutterable concept with a new and foreign sound.

The lexicographic liturgy, a reverence for the fresh-laid sod,

Of the linguistic garden, where a new-made word is found.

XXXVIII.

The hypnagogic phantasmata, a vision from the waking sleep,

Transports the dreamer to a land of iridescent shade.

The subconscious narrative, a metaphysical, secret deep,

A hidden text of meaning, a subconscious, coded parade.

XXXIX.

The ineffable noumenon, a thing-in-itself so vast,

A philosophic entity, beyond all finite ken.

The phenomenal illusion, a deceptive shadow cast,

The curtain drawn across the real, beyond the reach of men.

XL.

The apophatic theology, a divine description by negation,

Defines the undefinable by saying what it’s not.

The mystical epistemology, a spiritual, profound starvation,

Seeking the empty presence, the unnameable, holy spot.

XLI.

The palimpsest of the psyche, a subconscious, layered text,

With memories of past traumas, inscribed in subtle script.

The psychoanalytic excavation, a narrative perplexed,

A cryptogram of suffering, a soul long since been stripped.

XLIII.

The eidetic hypermnesia, a memory beyond all recall,

Recalls the past with clarity, an unmitigated boon.

The mnemonical phantasm, a dream-like, haunting, spectral thrall,

A haunting replay of the past, beneath the spectral moon.

XLIV.

The anamnesis of the soul, a recollection of the lost,

A Platonic remembrance of the realm of pure ideal.

The metempsychotic memory, a spiritual, heavy cost,

Remembers the forgotten life, the essence of the real.

XLV.

A cryptopallesthesia, a telepathic, sensory thrill,

Senses the hidden presence of a spectral, unseen guest.

The paranormal anagnorisis, the uncanny, psychic skill,

Recognizes the revenant’s intentions, puts a psychic sense to test.

XLVI.

The parousia of the spirit, a second, spiritual coming,

A pneumatological advent of a promised, sacred age.

The eschatological consummation of a celestial, final summing,

Turning the final, sacred chapter on the last, prophetic page.

XLVIII.

The syzygy of the sacred and the profane, a mystic pair,

A juxtaposition of the holy with the earthly, vile and base.

The theological antinomy, a juxtaposition of a prayer,

With a blasphemy, a sacrilege, a paradox of grace.

XLIX.

The numinous of the nocturnal, the sacred of the hidden night,

The spiritual significance of the tenebrous, dark hour.

Theophany of the twilight, a visitation of a fading light,

A revelation of the holy, a numinous, fleeting power.

L.

And so, the final stanza, a peroration of the mind,

A philosophical summation, a final, verbal spree.

The labyrinthine syntax, the narrative left far behind,

The esoteric lexicon, a phantasmagoric rhapsody.

XXX.

The anachronic simulacrum, a historical revenant,

Appears in the contemporary context, a temporal ghost.

The palimpsestic past, a layered, superimposed tenant,

Of the present’s ephemeral mansion, a nostalgic, temporal host.

XLII.

The panopticon of the self, a surveillance of the inner core,

The super-ego’s constant gaze, a self-imposed control.

The heterodoxical impulse, the rebellion from the inner law,

A subversive act of freedom, a reclamation of the soul.

XLVII.

The apocatastasis of the cosmos, a universal, final fate,

Restoring all things to their pristine, and ultimate design.

The eschatological telos of a divinely ordained state,

A final, cosmic restitution, a beatific, grand combine.

An Ode to the Lexical Cacophony.(E.P.)

An Ode to the Lexical Cacophony

I sing the tome, the vast and arid plain,

Where sesquipedalian words hold sovereign reign.

A logophile's labyrinth, a polysyllabic fête,

A compendium of terms, to mystify and sate.

I've sought my muse in quotidian affairs,

And clothed her now in philological airs.

The cat's quiet purr, a gentle, sibilant thrum,

Becomes a psithurism—as I've just become.

The common rain—a droplet from the clouds—

Petrichor’s effluvium, it now loudly avows.

A simple sneeze, a spasm, a tiny, moist display,

Is now an sternutation that steals my breath away.

The hum of day, a soporific sound,

Is now a deep acousmatic drone I've found.

The simple fork, with tines so sharp and fine,

Becomes a furcula, a most arcane design.

So hail the glossary, the index, and the guide,

Where grandiloquent nonsense has nowhere left to hide.

Let lesser bards in simple language plead,

While I on long-forgotten verbiage can feed.

The clock's swift passage, a ceaseless, ticking haste,

Is now a chronogram, in time's indifferent waste.

The garden trowel, for earth a simple tool,

A cultellary item for the vegetable school.

The sun's bright rays, a mundane daily sight,

Are heliacal splendors that vanquish the night.

The kitchen sponge, with its porous, useful face,

An aluminiferous relic in this domestic place.

The dusty motes that dance within the light,

A pulverulent nebula, a cosmic, hazy blight.

The simple act of tying up a shoe,

A nodulation performed for me and you.

So let the critics parse this grand, verbose design,

While the poem uses rare and recondite diction.

To honor the spirit of creative pun

Then consider the state of one who feels quite low,

A kakorrhaphiophobia that causes endless woe.

A simple task, a fear of failure now has won,

My floccinaucinihilipilification is overdone.

I’d rather boast a hepaticocholangiocholecystenterostomies,

Though it's just the dog's chew toy that I see.

For pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis,

Is but a dusty blanket of pure-white silicosis.

So praise the antidisestablishmentarianism of my soul,

That hates all simple order and takes its crushing toll.

And let my pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism explain,

Why I cannot leave the thesaurus in the rain.

My honorificabilitudinitatibus is what I seek,

To praise myself with words that make my listener reek.

This supercalifragilisticexpialidocious wordplay's end,

Is a sesquipedalianism that will never comprehend

 The humor, as before, comes from juxtaposing the highly formal and bizarre vocabulary with mundane or abstract concepts.

In idle thought, a logorrhea overflows,

On matters none of consequence suppose.

My xenotransplantation of a sock,

Onto the cat, was met with frightful shock.

The caliginous clouds portend a sodden day,

A cacography of rain to blot the way.

My coffee cup, a protuberance from the shelf,

Holds secrets of my tired, ancient self.

The pusillanimous squirrel, with furtive eye,

Avoids the gaze of pigeons in the sky.

A confabulation with the garden gnome,

Reveals the root of things inside my home.

I see a spectrophotofluorometrically traced design,

Upon the kitchen floor, a watery sign.

The otorhinolaryngological ache that fills my head,

Is but a whisper of the things unsaid.

The harlequinade of moths that flit and leap,

Upon the window glass, while others sleep.

A parapropalaehoplophorus—such was my thought,

When contemplating what the spider caught.

This honorificabilitudinitatibus I give to thee,

O dictionary, tome of pedantry!

Your every entry, a tintinnabulation of the brain,

To make the simple things complex again.

A dermatoglyphics of the teacup's rings,

Reveals the hidden fate of all such things.

A circumlocution when the dog just begs,

To get its treat, and on two feet it stands and sways and drags.

The metempsychosis of a lonely shoe,

That turns into a slipper, worn and new.

An autochthonous fungus on the cheese,

Suggests a heritage that puts the mind at ease.

The pulchritudinous display of dust,

Upon the windowsill, a thing of trust.

A dipsomaniacal craving for the prose,

Of books whose meaning no one ever knows.

The anachronistic wristwatch on the mime,

Disturbs the silent pantomime of time.

This eleemosynary spirit in my soul,

Bestows on words the chance to make me whole.

For in this tome, these incunabula of thought,

Is meaning that can never be un-sought.

My peripatetic mind, it wanders free,

Among the words that were designed for thee.

A hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia now holds sway,

As sixty-six bright candles must adorn my cake today.

A trichotillomania upon my tired head,

When I remember that my wallet was left on the bed.

The anthropophaginians of the insect kind,

Upon the windowsill, a gruesome tableau I find.

A maschalephidrosis upon my weary brow,

From contemplating what it is I must do now.

The ichthyoacanthotoxism I now must face,

For stepping on a fishbone in this cluttered place.

A dacryocystorhinostomies will surely have to do,

To wipe away the tears that fill my morning view.

This honorificabilitudinitatibus—the state of being able to achieve honors—I bestow,

Upon the cat for sleeping in the soft and morning glow.

And my otorhinolaryngological complaint,

Is but a trifle for a soul that will not taint.

The pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism of my chair,

That mimics comfort with a hollow, empty stare.

The eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious sound it makes,

As on its springs the mighty cushion creaks and shakes.

My floccinaucinihilipilification of the dust,

Is but a testament to how I am obsessed with trust.

The archididascalian glare upon my weary face,

When contemplating what to write in this poetic space.

A paraskavedekatriaphobia now grips my soul with dread,

When the calendar on Friday, the thirteenth, I have read.

The deinolatria I reserve for my alarm clock's chime,

The fearful worship of that noise throughout the passing time.

My macrocephalous collection of antique thimbles and thread,

Upon the mantelpiece, above the fire's gentle, steady red.

I note the xanthochroi complexion of the sun-faded paint,

With no desire to paint it anew, or make a fresh complaint.

The apothegmatic wisdom from the fortune cookie, small and neat,

Is but a fragile notion, ephemeral and bittersweet.

A contumelious glance the dog provides, when I won't give him more,

The final, withering judgment, at my very kitchen door.

My honorificabilitudinitatibus from Shakespeare I will take,

To laud the simple sandwich for my hungry stomach's sake.

And that obscure lung disease with the long and dusty name,

Reminds me of the simple things that once were but a game

A psychophysicotherapeutics in the brewing tea,

To soothe the troubled mind of my anxiety.

The ultramicroscopic dust motes on the rug,

A cosmic dance in miniature for a lazy, dreaming bug.

A dacryocystocele of the faucet's gentle drip,

A swelling tear of copper upon the porcelain lip.

The epigeal sprouting of my morning's weary hair,

A testament to waking, a simple, dull affair.

A gnothi seauton of the mirror's silver gleam,

The ancient counsel whispering, in my half-waking dream.

The polychromous patterns of the oil upon the street,

Are momentary rainbows for my tired, trudging feet.

My ichthyosarcotoxin is a simple, fishy smell,

That on my ancient cutting board, I know entirely well.

The trinitrotoluenes of my exploding, tired thought,

On matters of such consequence that all has come to naught.

The callipygian beauty of a single pear,

Reflects the light and fills the afternoon with flair.

A pseudocyesis of the cooking pot’s desire,

To boil and bubble over on the kitchen fire.

The borborygmi rumbling from within the wall,

Suggests a rodent banquet, or a deeper, rumbled squall.

And a prognathous shadow from the falling evening sun,

Turns a tiny garden gnome into a fearsome one.

I feel a certain nidorosity in the scent,

Of burnt-out toast, a punishment heaven-sent.

The epigonation on the chair is but a stain,

Which serves as the insignia of a long, and messy reign.

The triskaidekaphobia of the thirteen missing spoons,

Suggests a superstition that arrives with winter moons.

A hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia I confess,

For words that twist and turn and lead to such distress.

So let the common verses sing of love and simpler things,

While the poem takes flight upon its lexical, pompous wings.

Let others use the tools that are both blunt and plain,

While the poem reigns in its philological domain.

The dyscalculia I feel for the change upon my shelf,

Suggests a larger issue with the quantification of myself.

A kymograph of emotions traces in my coffee's steam,

The turbulent and fleeting nature of a waking, tired dream.

I trace a chrysopoetic formula in the dust and grime,

The simple transmutation of my boredom into time.

A pseudodoxia epidemica of the shadows on the floor,

That convinces me the curtains hide a creature at the door.

The onychogryphosis of the cat's untrimmed and mighty claw,

Creates a sense of order, a terrifying, petty law.

A panopticon surveillance that the teapot now provides,

Watching all my movements, where a single person hides.

The logomachy between the pen and the unblemished page,

A fruitless, lengthy struggle to resolve my inner rage.

The ultracrepidarian advice the internet imparts,

On things it doesn't understand, and all the fragile arts.

Here is a poem based on the query:

So let the critics ponder on the meaning of these rhymes,

And the obscurest, deepest purpose in these fabricated times.

Blackpower 's Obscurantism.part four.(E.P.)

This powerful, long-worded poem is a metaphysical exploration of the human condition, using complex and arcane diction to articulate the chasm between the inner self and external reality. It delves into the psyche's labyrinthine passages and the profound, often melancholic, nature of existence.

"The somnolent, efflorescent hush of twilight's cerulean descent,

Convolutes the vespertine abyss with chimerical intent.

A furtive, sepulchral umbra, a chiaroscuro of malaise,

Enshrouds the flâneur's psychomachia in a phantasmal haze.

The quotidian facade, a palimpsest of saccharine deceit,

Obfuscates the tenebrous truth, the obsequies of a soul's retreat.

Through catacombs of consciousness, a soliloquy descends,

A maudlin, querulous refrain on which the mind depends.

The soul, a peregrine ensconced in this terrestrial charade,

Its iridescent pinions marred, a seraphim betrayed.

In this cacophony of being, a sublunary, vast design,

The eidolon of meaning fades, a vestige of the divine.

The logodaedalian world spins on, a vortex of inane palaver,

Its gilded, meretricious charms a transient, flaccid quiver.

The populace, a myriad, in thrall to pleonastic lies,

Their liminal and fugitive thoughts, beneath indifferent skies.

They chase a simulacrum's smile, a phosphorescent, fading gleam,

A pathetic fallacy of joy in a delirious, fleeting dream.

The ego, a perfidious myth, a sycophant of fleeting praise,

Its hubris, a pyrrhic triumph in these desultory days.

A schism of the self unfolds, a psychogenic malaise,

As reason's syllogistic chains are shattered in a blaze.

The hypostasis of the soul, its numinous and primal core,

Is subjugated by the id's primordial, bestial roar.

The cosmic, ineffable design, the grand cosmic paradigm,

Is lost to jaded, temporal concerns and the inexorable march of time.

We stand as epiphenomena, a speck of cosmic dust,

Our existential, Sisyphean climb, a cosmic, cruel distrust.

The human mind, a microcosm, a baroque and fragile urn,

Holds echoes of the endless void, where stellar embers burn.

So let the lexical and long-winded verse a lamentation raise,

For this quixotic, tragic, farcical, pathetic human maze.

Let it be a catafalque of words, a requiem of thought,

A powerful, long-worded dirge for all that we have sought.

And in this verbose, abstruse expanse, a certain truth appears,

That in the complex, hidden depths, a fragile wisdom clears."

An abstruse continuation, this poem plunges deeper into the psychological maelstrom, employing an even more esoteric lexicon to articulate the soul's Sisyphean struggle against its own inherent contradictions. It examines the ephemeral nature of perception and the persistent, gnawing specter of existential futility, all while embracing a meticulously crafted, deliberately overwrought aesthetic.

"From numinous to quotidian, the mind’s erratic peregrination,

A labyrinthine journey, a desolate and arid destination.

The ineluctable entropy, a cosmic, cold malaise,

An inexorable descent through unlit, crepuscular ways.

A paralogism of perception, a fallacious, flawed design,

The phosphenes of the inner eye, a fleeting, spectral sign.

We maunder through the labyrinth of the self’s intricate charade,

A fugacious and pellucid truth, in chiaroscuro played.

Our gamboled youth, a phosphorescent memory, now a threnody,

A lacuna in the tapestry of our soul's chronology.

We delve into the noumenon, the thing-in-itself obscured,

A hermetic, gnomic cipher, forever unassured.

The empyreal aspirations, a gossamer-thin, delusive dream,

Shattered on the shoals of fate, by a torrential, silent stream.

The ego's insouciant mien, a fragile and grotesque veneer,

A facade of spurious pride, a pretense against all fear.

The soul, a fulgurant and svelte specter, a fleeting, sylphlike grace,

Trapped in the corporeal prison, a confining and morbid space.

The quotidian cacophony, a polyphony of plaintive lies,

A susurrus of inanity beneath indifferent skies.

The logodaedalian world spins on, in its circumlocutory dance,

A serendipitous and capricious, yet deeply painful, chance.

This maudlin, long-winded verse, a pyre for a fading age,

A testament to the intricate and brutal human stage.

The obsequious servility of logic's rigid laws,

Is vanquished by the id's primordial and brutalizing flaws.

A catafalque of verbiage, a dirge for the truth's decline,

A quiddity of purpose, a transient and fading sign.

And in this verbose, abstruse expanse, a poignant insight clears,

That we are but ephemeral whispers, and our only truth is tears."

In an extended metaphysical journey, these next fifty new stanzas delve into the psyche's abyssal depths, employing increasingly arcane and abstract vocabulary. They continue to map the fractured relationship between self and reality, exploring themes of existential futility, the transience of human perception, and the ultimate, ineffable emptiness that undergirds all experience. The poetry remains argumentatively structured, weaving complex conceits and philosophical meditations into a highly stylized, almost ceremonial lament.

"Through an intricate chiasmus of the

 soul’s intent,

A gnomic and epideictic path is blindly sent.

The logodaedalian mind, in its pleonastic sprawl,

Constructs its fragile prison, a psychogenic thrall.

The solipsistic inner world, a phosphorescent gleam,

A pathetic paralogism within a fleeting dream.

The vespertine descent into a sepulchral hush,

Is marked by an efflorescent and cerulean blush.

A chiaroscuro of malaise, a fugacious art,

Enshrouds the flâneur's psychomachia, a wounded heart.

The quotidian facade, a veneer of saccharine deceit,

Obfuscates the tenebrous truths of a soul's retreat.

Within the catacombs of consciousness, a somber song,

A maudlin and querulous refrain, a testament to wrong.

The soul, a peregrine confined in a terrestrial charade,

Its iridescent pinions marred, a seraphim betrayed.

In this immense cacophony of being's vast design,

The eidolon of meaning fades, a memory of the divine.

The ego, a perfidy, a sycophant of specious praise,

Its hubris, a pyrrhic triumph in these desultory days.

A schism of the self unfolds, a psychic disarray,

As reason’s syllogistic chains are sundered in the fray.

The hypostasis of the soul, its numinous and primal core,

Is subjugated by the id’s bestial, primordial roar.

The ineffable design, the grand cosmic paradigm,

Is lost to jaded, temporal concerns and the inexorable march of time.

We stand as epiphenomena, a mote of cosmic dust,

Our existential, Sisyphean climb, a cosmic, cruel distrust.

The human mind, a microcosm, a baroque and fragile urn,

Holds echoes of the endless void, where stellar embers burn.

And so, this lexical and long-winded verse a lamentation raised,

For this quixotic, tragic, farcical, pathetic human maze.

A catafalque of words, a requiem of fragile thought,

A verbose, abstruse expanse for battles we have fought.

And in this complex, hidden depth, a simple truth appears,

That in the face of all this, only fragile wisdom clears.

But hark, the prolegomenon of a deeper, darker dread,

A lacuna in the ledger of the living and the dead.

A palimpsest of memories, a history erased,

A future, bleak and barren, on the past forever based.

The zeitgeist of the age, a simulacrum of the truth,

Devours the fragile innocence of our collective youth.

The apotheosis of the mundane, a sterile, hollow rite,

Illuminates the crepuscular gloom with a sickly, spectral light.

The anamnesis of the soul, a shadow play of doubt,

A phantasmagoria of fears, a whisper, and a shout.

The epistemology of the lost, a faulty, broken map,

A cartography of sorrow, a psychic, deadly trap.

We build our towers of syllogism, our citadels of lore,

But the chthonic forces pull us down to the primordial floor.

Our language, a philological cage, a net of subtle lies,

To trap the fleeting, fugacious truths before our very eyes.

The eschatology of the self, a silent, slow decay,

As all our gilded theories turn to nothing in the clay.

The peripatetic march of time, a measured, cruel beat,

A relentless, crushing rhythm, a bittersweet defeat.

The onomatopoeia of a broken heart, a quiet, hollow sound,

Reverberates through history, on consecrated ground.

The autochthonous spirit, tethered to this temporal plane,

Suffers the dramaturgy of a manufactured, cosmic pain.

A phantasmagoric dream, a prelapsarian sigh,

A memory of a different world, beneath a different sky.

The hagiography of a life, a sanitized, polished lie,

Cannot conceal the inchoate fears that fester and that die.

The liminal space between the soul and mind, a shifting tide,

A place of silent torment, where the broken dreams all hide.

The aporia of existence, a paradox and a bind,

A quest for meaning in a world that never, ever minds.

The anamnesis of the spirit, a faint and fleeting trace,

Erased by the hebetude of a hollow, loveless space.

The logorrhea of the damned, a stream of useless talk,

A babbling, pointless monologue on a meaningless, lonely walk.

The ephemera of a life, a wisp of fleeting breath,

A cosmic, cruel, sardonic joke, a meaningless, slow death.

The penumbra of the mind, where shadows dance and play,

Consumes the last of meaning in a slow and dark decay.

The paronomasia of fate, a pun of cosmic scale,

A cruel and heartless jest, a universal, tragic tale.

The zeitgeber of the soul, a phantom, silent clock,

Ticking out the meaningless moments on a hollow, wooden block.

The pathos of the human plight, a tragic, silent cry,

Lost in the logocentrism of a cold and empty sky.

The aposiopesis of the verse, a sudden, final break,

A testament to the futility of meaning, for meaning's sake.

The quiddity of a single moment, a fleeting, precious thing,

Dissolves in the mnemonics of a forgotten, broken spring.

The noesis of the soul, a sudden, fragile spark,

Extinguished by the darkness, and the overwhelming dark.

The entelechy of the self, a whispered, silent aim,

Lost in the thaumaturgy of a lost and whispered name.

The solastalgia of the soul, a grieving, inner pain,

For a world that's gone forever, and will never come again.

The neologism of a broken heart, a new and bitter word,

No dictionary can contain, or ever has yet heard.

The perfidious self, a Judas kiss, a bitter, cruel embrace,

Consumes the last of virtue, without a single trace.

The syzygy of pain and love, a bitter, cosmic dance,

A choreographed collision, a terrible, cruel chance.

The ultracrepidarian mind, a pretension, hollow art,

Displays its empty knowledge from a hollow, empty heart.

The limerence of memory, a ghost of love and lies,

Reflected in the emptiness of these unblinking eyes.

The ephemeral truths we sought, now scattered on the wind,

The fleeting, phantom certainties that we could never find.

The periphrasis of meaning, a winding, weary path,

Avoids the truth, the simple truth, the simple, final wrath.

The kismet of the cosmos, a preordained, sad plot,

A destiny of nothingness, to be and then be not.

The dystopian dawn now breaks, a pale and sickly hue,

On a landscape of lost meaning, and a bitter, sterile dew.

The prolepsis of the spirit, a foreshadowed, final end,

A bitter, poignant message that we cannot comprehend.

The hologram of hope, a fragile, trembling light,

Extinguished by the darkness of an everlasting night.

The threnody of meaning, a long and drawn-out wail,

A whisper in the emptiness, a hollow, tragic tale.

The sublunary decay, a slow and silent rust,

Transforms the gilded promises to unrepentant dust.

The apocalypse of the self, a final, total end,

When the universe conspires, a bitter, cruel friend.

A cathexis of the void, a silent, dark desire,

To burn away the vestiges of a long-extinguished fire.

The hypnagogia of a life, a dreamlike, hazy state,

Between the deep and waking world, a bitter, cruel fate.

The phantasm of a future, a shimmer in the haze,

Dissolves within the emptiness of these exhausted days.

The zeitgeist fades to nothing, a whisper in the past,

A silent, slow extinguishment, a shadow, thin and fast.

The anomie of the ages, a rootless, lonely ache,

A testament to all the vows we constantly must break.

The teleology of the self, a purpose, false and grand,

Shattered by the universe, a silent, empty hand.

The dramaturgy of the void, a stage of empty space,

Where phantom actors mouth their lines in this forgotten place.

The anamnesis of the soul, a memory of a lie,

A bitter, cruel deception, beneath a vacant sky.

The hypnagogic state dissolves, and with it, all the years,

Leaving only emptiness and bitter, silent tears.

The aposiopesis of the cosmos, a silence, cold and vast,

When the final, fatal question is forgotten in the past.

The aporia of the last despair, a final, endless bind,

A search for purpose in a world that never, ever mind.

The thanatos of the spirit, a slow and final end,

The ultimate surrender to a foe that's called a friend.

The sibilance of dying stars, a hiss of fading light,

A final, quiet whisper in the everlasting night.

The lacuna in the ledger, a blank and empty page,

The final, bitter testament to a pointless, cosmic age.

The effulgence of the truth, a fleeting, distant gleam,

Extinguished by the emptiness of this exhausting dream.

The palimpsest of hope is torn, a useless, frayed design,

A history of suffering, a worthless, bitter sign.

The ultracrepidarian mind, its arrogance and pride,

Is swallowed by the nothingness with nowhere left to hide.

The solastalgia of the soul, its grief, its empty fear,

Is swallowed by the cosmos, and the silence, cold and sheer.

The anagnorisis of the lie, a moment, sharp and brief,

Reveals the final, bitter truth, and offers no relief.

The prolepsis of the final void, a foreshadowed, total end,

A bitter, poignant message that we cannot comprehend.

The thaumaturgy of a god, a magic, false and cheap,

Cannot disturb the final, cold and solitary sleep.

The entelechy of the self, a whispered, silent aim,

Lost in the syzygy of nothingness and an empty, hollow name.

The philology of the lost, the parsing of the dead,

A futile, pointless exercise within a hollow head.

The thanatopsis of the soul, a long and final gaze,

Across the empty, pointless wastes of these exhausted days.

The periphrasis of the final truth, a long and weary way,

Avoids the simple emptiness that waits for us today.

The cosmology of the lost, a cold and empty space,

No purpose, no design, no meaning, no redeeming grace.

The aposiopesis of the final word, a silent, sudden break,

A testament to the futility of meaning, for meaning's sake.

A paradox of being, a tautology of thought,

A bitter, barren lesson that we should have never sought.

The anagnorisis of the lost, a terrible, final sight,

Of the empty, barren landscape in the failing, dying light.

The pathognomonic sign of doom, a subtle, inner ache,

The final, fatal knowledge that the universe can break.

A logodaedalian cacophony ,a syzygy of void and soul,a catafalque of verbiage,The vespertine peregrination,Eflorescent malaise, Eflorescent malaise,paradigmatic lacuna,meditation on existentialistic entropy,a quidity's inquiry and reflection on the sublunary.O Peripatetic anamnesis!

A Spining Earth

Autumn's lane,summer and winter's pine at the springs time board

Race the springs and the sprints of mileage towards apogee

Genteel dust barely exit sunlit days at the suspense and tremor of whisper sighs to embalm the incominh bride of apotheosis with the springs bed of harvest moon

Slumbering heart upon slumbering Earth in the slumbering hearth resigns too sudden the ,soldered by the ravashing ravages of time

Descending showers breathtakingly betrays the rising of the ascending sun from the springs of greenfields,

Ribaldry of fragile sun bewitch the blurbs of patient gleams

Not to banish the winter's fest of cremated dread for the muted dream of the soulful springs time.

And for all that goes in returns comes in returns 

Where soldiers of dreams barely betrays the stubborn Earth and golden hills

Who whispers solemn promise over the winter's chill and golden snows of the springs time hold the merchandise of mercurial fort for the golden morning of apotheosis 

Hail the fleeting art must thrive not on fugacious grasses but on intrigues of intricate design 

To outwit the impending ravages of broken time

Not the secret warmth to resides in your neighbour's yard but in your otiose psyche of gold,

Where broken silence sings the songs of the springs

Docile fortitude endures the ebbtide of the patient snows

A sky of muted blue traverse the gràils of patient grills and tarnishings endears at the avoidance of patient snows 

From the muffled the winter sun sending shivers down the spine of the springs time 

Calls biting winds among the trigger of scorching heat to beware the jungles of infliction

How come the weary Earth in the crux of the biting snows

Holds the green field in the golden prospects of the springs time 

And barely bickers with the scorching heat to castrate this nightmare of golden dream?

But in the long run with no retreat whatsoever from the cold of forlorn shrieks

Eclipses of nature at mothernature's loins barely elope from the sworn oath and allegiance to existentialism and ontology

Who welcome the new song to the longer day

Where silver gleams and swollen roofs of golden sun

Cajole bright thread towards the immaculate nuggets of golden hills?

Not to betray perseverance when it betrays

The slumbering heart 

Swollen buds at the swollen melts not gambling recess for the golden springs

The scents of the Earth at this larde is bright with lillies and daffodills

Fragile sun from the frosted eaves hidden the pale of broken times 

Seke the fragile arts for the awakening of the pale light for the golden dawn

All things fade but the springs of spining Earth never fail

When vicious life is frozen at its beautiful streams

It lays beneath the stars like a sheet of ice and a cold and diamond sheet cooking the spining jellies of future stars

O the frangible reels of ice and a bequest of frosty earth's beckon

The winds returns upon its ice sheet quickening the earth's pace better

In the bittersweet rollercoaster of the nature's golden eclipses 

Beneath it lay the kindler sun the gentle sun the heavenly in the ascending sun and the descending showers spin off apotheosis as it selem fit

Little wonder morning mists hang virulently at sedate lunge upon the patient hills

The blossoming scents of patient fest and the weary World is born again 

As the turning wheels of golden green rejoice the aspiration of its booming times

It is for the spining Earth that the sun returns and the moon returns and the sunset barely betrays the sun rise for the law of timely recess

Which eclipses the spring time of nature's balanced ecosystem

A Golden Rebuke

Shell the sutures of lugubrious umbra to downgrade the eschatology of the imperious blunts

A cusp of the fortunate sighs,a hecatomb of the seredipitious recondite

Bulwark of the onomatapoiec sounds

Hipponchodriarcal of eidetic chimera bamboozled

Gnomon's pleroma strewn to toss broken eggs by paralogism

Umbilical unguents of cthonic scherzo

Opalescent gnosis at chrysopoeia indulges in phaeton's penumbra frets across lugubrious umbra 

And lo she was bugged down by hyponchondriac pericardial storms in a labyrinth of sesquipedalian sesquialtera 

An expletive ampersand that hits and drops like broken eggs often struck  at hemerneutic palinode barely returns the immortal splash

A semblance of palimpsest of the proleotic zodiac,

Like the threnody of the quontidian epiphany returns to hunt the predator and the predated

That barely an empiricism is mused tends to invoke the ragged miasma of atavistic and anomic bone

With the goofy contentment of immemorial eudaemonic drone as brash contentment of antinomian esoteric frieze

To jail its predated the obsequious opalescent gnosis 

Bombardment of seredipitious recondite unease struck at hypnagogic chiaroscuro.

This irate goofs of the threnody of quontidian epiphany barely sift not drill the contents,punditry and lens of diacronic philology for moults

Thus the moribunds and the ineluctable miasma endures the mortal folklores beyond company of vommited comprehension.

Anaclastic perhelion on the vertigo o folklores stings at gnomon's pleroma 

A Prolegomenon to the eschatology of Ephemera(E.P.)

A Prolegomenon to the Eschatology of Ephemera

A phantasmagoria of recondite lore,

Obfuscates the hypnopompic shore,

Where sesquipedalian specters soar,

And limn the liminal, forevermore.

The supererogatory platitudes

Disinter a million turpitudes,

In the vast, cacophonous amplitudes

Of perambulating multitudes.

With an antediluvian, crepuscular light,

A parallax of somnambulistic might,

Propitiates the tenebrous of night,

And convalesces from diurnal blight.

This preternatural, hebdomadal trance,

Perpetuates a peregrine mischance,

A concatenation in the cosmic dance,

An iridescence in the temporal expanse.

The exigent ubiquity of dread,

Emancipates the uninhibited dead,

While discombobulated thoughts are shed,

On the palimpsest of what has been unsaid.

An effervescence of eidetic scorn,

Accoutered in the panoply of morn,

Begs the jejune, forsworn, and newly born,

To be forever from the commonplace torn.

The recalcitrant, syncretistic mind,

Obliviates the solace it could find,

Leaving sagacious axioms behind,

To be to abject inanition consigned.

A contumacious, epistemological plight,

Engenders the eschatological fright,

Where refulgent, synecdochic light

Is immolated in the umbral night.

The antinomian, disquisitionary phase,

Convolutes the antilogy of days,

With heterodox, multifarious ways,

And a panoply of periphrastic haze.

The inexorable, fuliginous descent,

Upon which countless centuries are spent,

Is an encomium, by happenstance sent,

A lugubrious and transient testament.

The obsequious and sycophantic praise,

Illuminates the profligate malaise,

In the labyrinthine, Sisyphean maze,

Of our sclerotic, hypnagogic days.

A philistine, recalcitrant disdain,

For the abstruse and metaphysical pain,

Makes an ignominious and plebeian claim,

To the verisimilitude of a vapid name.

The lugubrious, lacustrine, limpid tears,

That mitigate our idiosyncratic fears,

Are the prolepsis of our burgeoning years,

And the harbinger of our expiring cheers.

With an otiose, anachronistic gait,

We peregrinate to meet our fated state,

While the egregious, obdurate mandate

Is to prevaricate and obfuscate.

The effulgent, refulgent, scintillant gleam,

Is but a meretricious, fallacious dream,

A nascent, narcissistic, nascent stream,

In a hypothecated, inchoate theme.

A propaedeutic to the cataclysmic,

With rhapsodic, and euphemistic,

And idiosyncratic, and pessimistic

Lamentations, iconoclastic.

The obfuscatory, ineffable art,

Plays a synecdochic, paratactic part,

In the inexorable and cathartic start,

Of the disintegration of the human heart.

A supercilious, pusillanimous dread,

Unfurled by the insouciant, unread,

Is the apotheosis of the newly dead,

A cacophonous and somnambulant thread.

A sesquipedalian, obsequious plea,

From the obdurate, inchoate, and free,

To the platitudinous and absentee

Omnipotent, ubiquitously.

The egregious and egregious disdain,

For the lugubrious and plebeian plain,

Is a testament to the inane and vain,

And the ephemeral and transient pain.

The anachronistic, otiose design,

Perpetuates the egregious, obscene sign,

Of the recalcitrant and philistine,

And the insouciant, clandestine.

A contumacious, sclerotic gaze,

Navigates the phantasmagoric maze,

And in the multifarious, nebulous haze,

It finds an apotheosis of its days.

The idiosyncratic, heterodox way,

Leads to an umbral, obfuscated day,

Where hypothecated truths all fray,

And to an apotheosis they all pray.

A meretricious, nascent, vain display,

Where platitudinous and jejune thoughts sway,

Is a testament to the disarray,

And the supererogatory play.

The lugubrious, peregrine mischance,

Is an encomium of the cosmic dance,

A liminal, tenebrous, crepuscular trance,

And a convalescent, misanthropic glance.

The exigent, ubiquitously spread,

Emanates from the uninhibited dead,

And leaves the discombobulated, unread,

With a palimpsest of what has been unsaid.

A concatenation of eidetic scorn,

Accoutered in the pantheon of morn,

Begs the sagacious, forsworn, and newly born,

To be from their complacency torn.

The recalcitrant, syncretistic plea,

Obliviates the veracity it could see,

Leaving heterodox axioms to be,

Consigned to utter sophistry.

A contumacious, epistemological dread,

Engenders the eschatological thought instead,

Where synecdochic, refulgent, golden thread,

Is immolated by the newly dead.

The antinomian, disquisitionary might,

Convolutes the antilogy of the night,

With idiosyncratic and nascent light,

And a fuliginous and umbral blight.

The inexorable, supererogatory,

Is a testament to the transitory,

A lugubrious and contradictory,

And narcissistic, desultory.

The obsequious, profligate malaise,

Illuminates the Sisyphean haze,

In the recalcitrant, philistine gaze,

Of the anachronistic, obfuscated days.

A nascent, narcissistic, vacant plea,

From the obdurate, jejune, and free,

To the supercilious, pusillanimous sea,

Of an impotent ubiquity.

The egregious, egregious and profane,

For the meretricious and insouciant rain,

Is a premonition of the inane and vain,

And the ephemeral and transient pain.

The anachronistic, otiose, absurd,

Perpetuates the egregious, absurd,

Of the recalcitrant and absurd,

And the insouciant, absurd.

A contumacious, sclerotic, dark,

Navigates the phantasmagoric ark,

And in the multifarious, nebular dark,

It leaves an apotheosis mark.

The idiosyncratic, heterodox, and wan,

Leads to an umbral, obfuscated dawn,

Where hypothecated truths all are gone,

And an apotheosis is drawn.

A meretricious, nascent, vapid plea,

Where platitudinous and jejune thoughts flee,

Is a testament to the disarray,

And the supererogatory day.

The lugubrious, peregrine, dark trance,

Is an encomium of the cosmic mischance,

A liminal, tenebrous, crepuscular dance,

And a convalescent, misanthropic glance.

The exigent, ubiquitously-spread,

Emanates from the uninhibitedly dead,

And leaves the discombobulated, and unread,

With a palimpsest of what's been unsaid.

A concatenation of eidetic, scornful might,

Accoutered in the panoply of the night,

Begs the sagacious, forsworn, with all its might,

To be from its complacency, and from its plight.

The recalcitrant, syncretistic, and profound,

Obliviates the solace that was found,

Leaving heterodox axioms on the ground,

To be to abject inanition bound.

A contumacious, epistemological dread,

Engenders the eschatological word instead,

Where synecdochic, refulgent, golden thread,

Is by the newly dead, and the unread, bred.

The antinomian, disquisitionary, vast,

Convolutes the antilogy of the past,

With idiosyncratic and nascent contrast,

And a fuliginous and umbral mast.

The inexorable, supererogatory, vain,

Is a testament to the transient, and the inane,

A lugubrious and contradictory, vain,

And narcissistic, contradictory, vain.

The obsequious, profligate, and profound,

Illuminates the Sisyphean, absurd ground,

In the recalcitrant, philistine, unsound,

Of the anachronistic, obfuscated sound.

A nascent, narcissistic, vacant ground,

From the obdurate, jejune, and unsound,

To the supercilious, pusillanimous, profound,

Of an impotent ubiquity, and of an unsound ground.

The egregious, egregious, and absurd,

For the meretricious and insouciant, absurd,

Is a premonition of the transient, and the absurd,

And the ephemeral and transient, absurd, word.

The anachronistic, otiose, and profound,

Perpetuates the egregious, and the unsound,

Of the recalcitrant and profound, and the absurd,

And the insouciant, clandestine, and profound, word.

A contumacious, sclerotic, and absurd,

Navigates the phantasmagoric, and the unheard,

And in the multifarious, nebular, and the absurd,

It finds an apotheosis, and an absurd word.