The Aporia of Mnemophoebia
From tenebrous depths, the chthonic mind exhumes
A palimpsest of days, a florilegium of dooms.
The ego, an ephebe, yet a hierophant of pain,
Navigates the phantasmal, the mazy, the mundane.
A numinous chirography, a cuneiform of light,
Adumbrates the effluvium of the encroaching night.
We, mnemonic ephemera, with mnemophobiac dread,
Recalibrate the vestiges of all that is unsaid.
A congeries of moments, a profligacy of years,
Are sibilant and fractious in our tympanic ears.
We scry the past, a tessera, a syncretistic art,
Yet the chronometry of self is tearing us apart.
A hypnagogic murmur, a somnolent report,
The liminal interstices that no one can transport.
The ratiocination, the pellucid, brittle thought,
With antediluvian fervors, is perpetually fraught.
The anodyne of solace, an opiate for the soul,
Is a soporific chthonian, a half-perceived whole.
In this inchoate pageant, this tenebrous array,
We evince a languor and then parley with the day.
The solipsistic fortress, the bastion of our mind,
Is a hermeneutical quagmire for the truths we left behind.
An autochthonous fervor, a primogenial zeal,
Is the sole and mordant cipher for the fictions we call real.
A plangent, ululating, peripatetic drone,
The metempsychotic music from a subterranean stone.
The panoptic eye perceives us, the panegyric tongue,
Extirpating nuances from the songs that have been sung.
A crepuscular delusion, a phantasmagoria,
We are stultified and plangent, adrift in the aporia.
Our limbic system, raptorial, prehensile in its grip,
Is a peradventure waiting on the trembling of a lip.
The grandiloquent verbiage, the farrago of the day,
Is a chrestomathy for spirits that have been cast away.
We’re an apotheosis seeking, a numinous design,
A catachresis yearning for a truth that is divine.
And the eschatological reckoning, the final, dread assay,
Is but a synecdoche for all we throw away.
So let us, fulgent shadows, on this epigonous shore,
With grandiloquence and fervor, demand and still ask for more.
Continuing the original poem in the same vein of powerful, long, and difficult words, this next section delves deeper into the psychological and cosmic aspects of the human condition.
An Apodictic Chthonian Gnosis
A fulminating phantasm, a chimerical design,
The apodictic logic that we claim as wholly mine.
A synchronic confluence, a prolegomenon to dread,
The hermetic whispers of the numina we've bred.
From the tenebrous abyss, a telluric echo rings,
A susurrus of chaos, the farrago that it brings.
The haptic anagnorisis, the noetic touch of fate,
A catachresis of the spirit that arrives a moment late.
The atavistic clamor, a primeval, mordant plea,
The metempsychotic journey of a soul that seeks to be.
A serendipitous nexus, a liminal, fraught domain,
A palimpsestic trauma, a sempiternal pain.
The solipsistic fortress, a bastion made of lies,
Is breached by ululating winds, beneath the sepia skies.
The antinomian impulse, the gnostic, hidden key,
Unlocks the chthonian silence for all the world to see.
A peripatetic shadow, a spectral peregrine,
Traverses hypnagogic mists, a phantasmagoric scene.
The plangent, ululating moan, a dirge of mordant fear,
Is the sole and mordant cipher for the truths we hold so dear.
The obfuscating verbiage, the grandiloquent display,
Is but a soporific balm to chase the dread away.
The aporetic questioning, a futile, long refrain,
Is the eschatological ending of the mind's incessant pain.
The profligacy of spirit, the plethora of thought,
Is the final, fulgent, apotheosis we have bought.
The crepuscular dominion, a kingdom of the blind,
Is the ultimate oblivion that we perpetually find.
The epigonous echoes, the last and futile cry,
A mnemophobiac’s lament beneath a starless sky.
This anodyne illusion, a somnolent report,
Is the quiddity of being that we desperately court.
The Entropic Entelechy
The telos of our sentience, a fulgurous design,
Is a cataclysmic entropy, a serpentine decline.
From the empyrean apex, the apotheosis falls,
As an ineluctable silence subsumes the hallowed halls.
The noetic apprehension, a gossamer-thin thread,
Is unraveled by the phantoms of all the past has bred.
A grandiloquent verbiage, an oratorical haze,
Obfuscates the aporetic ends of our contiguous days.
A palimpsestic strata, a stratagem of dust,
The chrestomathy of living, a mnemophobiac trust.
The autochthonous fervor, a primogenial fire,
Succumbs to the insouciance of a cosmic, deadened pyre.
The plangent, ululating dirges, the metempsychotic score,
Are mere cacophonous prefaces to what has come before.
The eschatological summons, the final, dread assay,
Is a metonymic silence, a somniferous delay.
The antinomian fissures, the fissiparous decay,
Are the crepuscular delusions that we herald and obey.
The apodictic chthonian wisdom, the unshakeable truth,
Is a mere prolegomenon for a world without its youth.
The peripatetic wanderers, the flotsam of the mind,
Are the hermeneutical whispers of a truth we left behind.
In this hypnagogic cosmos, this tenebrous array,
Our fervent, brief existence is but an ephemeral display.
So let the congeries of moments, the profligacy of years,
Become a sere and fractious thing, dispelling all our fears.
For in the inchoate vastness, the numinous design,
Our purpose is an absence, our final truth divine.
A solipsistic journey, a peregrine’s last flight,
Into the ululating silence of an everlasting night.
This is the entropic teleology, the final, fated sum,
A world in which the cacophony has finally, finally become numb.
The Apogee of Nihilism
The metempsychotic music, the euphony of dread,
Is a somnambulistic serenade for the quick and for the dead.
The noumenal existence, the essence of the form,
Is an inchoate pageant in a transcendental storm.
The synecdoche of spirit, the vestige of a thought,
Is the sole and mordant cipher for the nothingness we've sought.
A hypnagogic terminus, a panoptic, vacant stare,
The telos of our being, the absence of a care.
A congeries of echoes, a florilegium of sound,
Perambulate the liminal interstices of sacred ground.
The antediluvian hunger, the primordial design,
Is a catachresis yearning for a silence more benign.
The chthonian effluvium, the tenebrous decay,
Is the eschatological ending of the brief, contiguous day.
The autodidactic frenzy, the ratiocination's art,
Is but a soporific opiate that tears the world apart.
The fulgurous descent, the pereginous soul's last flight,
Into the ululating vastness of an everlasting night.
The apodictic silence, the incontrovertible truth,
Is the entropic requiem for the halcyon days of youth.
The panegyric fervor, the grandiloquent display,
Is an epigonous memory, an effervescent ray.
So let us, in this quietus, this final, fated end,
The apotheosis of oblivion, upon which we depend.
The solipsistic bastion, the fortress of the mind,
Is a sepulchral quagmire for the truths we left behind.
A serendipitous nexus, a confluence of dread,
Is the final, mnemophobiac, unremembered thread.
The crepuscular delusion, the somniferous display,
Is the quiddity of nothingness, the end of all our play.
And in the ineluctable silence, the absence of a breath,
We find the final parley with the plenitude of death.
A phantasmagoria of forgotten lore,
The epigonous echoes on a tenebrous shore.
The peripatetic shadows, a chirography of plight,
Trace the obfuscating contours of the encroaching night.
We, antinomian spirits, in this hermetic plight,
Decipher the apodictic wisdom of our inner light.
A cuneiform of sorrow, a palimpsest of pain,
The synecdoche of selfhood, a cacophonous refrain.
The profligacy of purpose, a telos self-abjured,
Is a soporific promise that can no longer be conjured.
The ineluctable silence, the quintessential dread,
Is the mnemophobiac whisper for the souls that have bled.
The solipsistic bastion, the ego's fortress falls,
As the numinous nihilism answers the cosmic calls.
A susurrus of nothing, a sepulchral demand,
The entropic entelechy of a once-fulgurous land.
The catachresis of meaning, the tautological design,
Is a hypnagogic terminus, a desolate, final sign.
The autodidactic impulse, the ratiocination's plea,
Is but a futile skirmish with our prehensile destiny.
The crepuscular dominion, a kingdom of the mind,
Is the last, moribund vestige of the truths we left behind.
And in this ultimate quietus, this all-encompassing numb,
The panoptic silence, the final word has come.
The quintessential quiddity, the apotheosis of us all,
Is the eschatological ending, the monumental fall.
No grandiloquent verbiage, no oratorical haze,
Can obfuscate the starkness of our ending, finite days.
The metempsychotic journey has reached its final post,
The peradventure of our being is an unremembered ghost.
And as the final shadow consumes the failing ray,
The penumbral quintessence finally, finally fades away.
The Penumbral Quintessence
The Panegyric of the Void
The apogee of nothing, a nullifidian rite,
Eulogizes entropy with an apodictic light.
The chrestomathy of purpose, a prolegomenon to naught,
Is the sole and mordant cipher for the fictions we have sought.
From tenebrous beginnings, the telos of decay,
The synecdoche of spirit, that dissolves and drifts away.
A congeries of echoes, a spectral, plaintive drone,
The metempsychotic silence from a subterranean stone.
The anodyne of sentience, a soporific balm,
Is the eschatological ending of the cosmic, final psalm.
We, antinomian specters, in this hermetic plight,
Are but a phantasmagoria in an endless, starless night.
The ratiocination, the intellectual fray,
Is a catachresis of meaning, a grandiloquent display.
The autodidactic impulse, the fervor of the mind,
Is the epigonous echo of the truths we left behind.
A pereginous ghost, a hypnagogic, fleeting sigh,
Perambulates the liminal beneath a vacant sky.
The solipsistic fortress, the bastion of our lies,
Has crumbled into nothing beneath indifferent eyes.
The prehensile ambition, the raptorial design,
Is a moribund illusion, a serpentine decline.
And in the ultimate quietus, the all-consuming numb,
The panoptic nothingness has finally, finally become.
The quintessential quiddity, the apotheosis of us all,
Is the ineluctable silence that precedes the cosmic fall.
The crepuscular delusion, a fleeting, sepia gleam,
Is the final, fulgurous reflection of a forgotten dream.
And so we end, as shadows, on this epigonous shore,
Not with grandiloquence or fever, but never, ever more.
The panegyric of the void is finally, fully sung,
And the eulogy for everything is silence on the tongue.
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