This is an original piece in the style of a modernist epic. The poem, titled Chthonian Nocturne, delves into themes of metaphysical struggle, existential dread, and the human intellect's Sisyphean quest for ultimate understanding.
Chthonian Nocturne
Enjoy the poetic style in the shakespearean blend.
"From the chthonian coils where gnosis is interred,
The cerebrum, that protoplasmic burr,
Ejects its flustered, philomathic word—
A teleology, a spectral slur.
The phantasmagoria of diurnal rote,
The insipid grist of quotidian mill,
Is but a palimpsest where vapours float
And anomie assumes the world's cold will.
A metempsychosis of the human soul,
Transmogrified by some fell paraclete,
Recants its fealty to the cosmic whole,
And finds its solace in a bleak retreat.
What liminal interstices are we born
To navigate, with profligate disdain,
The hypnagogic fragments of the morn,
And supine languish in the evening's rain?
The noosphere, a web of thought-made things,
Is rent asunder by the mordant truth,
That logos, with its promethean wings,
Is still a captive of its feral youth.
The peripatetic quest for a sublime,
A noumenal escape from corporeal clay,
Is but a testament to wasted time,
A pharisaic plea for endless day.
The Weltanschauung is a fractured thing,
A polysemous echo in the void,
Where solipsistic mantras bravely sing,
And every praxis is a lie employed.
The hegemonic structure of the self,
A brittle fortress built on sand and bone,
Collapses under its own psychic pelf,
And leaves the derelict mind to moan.
The hermeneutics of the human heart,
Deciphered by a flawed and feeble eye,
Reveals a mendacity, a work of art
Forged in the shadow of a cosmic sigh.
We are but acolytes of the abattoir,
Where innocence is slaughtered for a name,
And every nascent, stellar avatar
Succumbs to some prevaricating flame.
The apotheosis of the final breath,
The grand denouement of the mortal coil,
Is no release, but just another death,
The fertile seeding of another soil.
And yet, we strive, with autodidactic zeal,
To annotate the vastness of the deep,
To find a verity that feels like real,
And lull our restless, anxious souls to sleep.
The epiphenomena of our despair,
The psychic flotsam of a wasted age,
Is but a testament to how we fare
Upon this cosmological, cruel stage.
The antinomies of our present state,
The dialectic of our fading light,
Propel us to a long-foregone debate,
Within the boundless, tenebrous of night.
The eschatological dread that seethes and swirls,
The apoplectic grip of final things,
Reminds us that this spinning orb still hurls
Through space, on its own preordained wings.
The numinous is but a feckless term,
A sop to the preterite and the profane,
A final, obfuscating, psychic germ,
To insulate us from the final pain.
We seek a telepathic, cosmic link,
A synchronicity with the all-that-is,
But every time we stand upon the brink,
We find a vacuum, and our spirits fizz.
The logorrhea of our futile prayer,
The unction of our self-important plea,
Is just a vapor on the listless air,
A plangent echo from eternity.
The paradigm is shifting, like the sands,
The epistemic bulwark starts to fade,
The architectonics crumble from our hands,
And in their place a new design is made.
But still, we cling to our own phallic hubris,
The potent symbol of a power past,
And wait for some grand, final, cosmic rubrics,
To tell us if this new construct can last.
The antediluvian past, a fossilized thought,
Still haunts the cavernous mind with its refrain,
That everything is meaningless and for nought,
Until we find a way to start again."
The following stanzas further explore the poem's themes of linguistic decay, epistemological crisis, cosmic indifference, and the labyrinthine nature of human consciousness, continuing in the same high-register, esoteric, and allusive style.
"From the chthonian coils where gnosis is interred,
The cerebrum, that protoplasmic burr,
Ejects its flustered, philomathic word—
A teleology, a spectral slur.
The phantasmagoria of diurnal rote,
The insipid grist of quotidian mill,
Is but a palimpsest where vapours float
And anomie assumes the world's cold will.
A metempsychosis of the human soul,
Transmogrified by some fell paraclete,
Recants its fealty to the cosmic whole,
And finds its solace in a bleak retreat.
What liminal interstices are we born
To navigate, with profligate disdain,
The hypnagogic fragments of the morn,
And supine languish in the evening's rain?
The noosphere, a web of thought-made things,
Is rent asunder by the mordant truth,
That logos, with its promethean wings,
Is still a captive of its feral youth.
The peripatetic quest for a sublime,
A noumenal escape from corporeal clay,
Is but a testament to wasted time,
A pharisaic plea for endless day.
The Weltanschauung is a fractured thing,
A polysemous echo in the void,
Where solipsistic mantras bravely sing,
And every praxis is a lie employed.
The hegemonic structure of the self,
A brittle fortress built on sand and bone,
Collapses under its own psychic pelf,
And leaves the derelict mind to moan.
The hermeneutics of the human heart,
Deciphered by a flawed and feeble eye,
Reveals a mendacity, a work of art
Forged in the shadow of a cosmic sigh.
We are but acolytes of the abattoir,
Where innocence is slaughtered for a name,
And every nascent, stellar avatar
Succumbs to some prevaricating flame.
The apotheosis of the final breath,
The grand denouement of the mortal coil,
Is no release, but just another death,
The fertile seeding of another soil.
And yet, we strive, with autodidactic zeal,
To annotate the vastness of the deep,
To find a verity that feels like real,
And lull our restless, anxious souls to sleep.
The epiphenomena of our despair,
The psychic flotsam of a wasted age,
Is but a testament to how we fare
Upon this cosmological, cruel stage.
The antinomies of our present state,
The dialectic of our fading light,
Propel us to a long-foregone debate,
Within the boundless, tenebrous of night.
The eschatological dread that seethes and swirls,
The apoplectic grip of final things,
Reminds us that this spinning orb still hurls
Through space, on its own preordained wings.
The numinous is but a feckless term,
A sop to the preterite and the profane,
A final, obfuscating, psychic germ,
To insulate us from the final pain.
We seek a telepathic, cosmic link,
A synchronicity with the all-that-is,
But every time we stand upon the brink,
We find a vacuum, and our spirits fizz.
The logorrhea of our futile prayer,
The unction of our self-important plea,
Is just a vapor on the listless air,
A plangent echo from eternity.
The paradigm is shifting, like the sands,
The epistemic bulwark starts to fade,
The architectonics crumble from our hands,
And in their place a new design is made.
But still, we cling to our own phallic hubris,
The potent symbol of a power past,
And wait for some grand, final, cosmic rubrics,
To tell us if this new construct can last.
The antediluvian past, a fossilized thought,
Still haunts the cavernous mind with its refrain,
That everything is meaningless and for nought,
Until we find a way to start again.
The noumena, a silent, spectral force,
Distorts the calculus of our intent,
And every vector on our mortal course
Is by its alien geometry bent.
A sublunary pathos, dark and deep,
A miasma from the tellurian core,
Wakes from the primal, somnolent abyss of sleep,
To whisper truths we've heard long, long before.
The anamnesis of a broken race,
A vestigial longing for the sun,
Is but a shadow in this empty space,
This Sisyphean task that's never done.
The eidetic memory of things not real,
The paralogisms of a troubled mind,
Attempt to forge a sense that we can feel,
A truth that is by its own nature blind.
The concatenation of all human fear,
An ontological and psychic weight,
Is but a whisper that we fail to hear,
As we capitulate to our own fate.
The cryptomnesia of forgotten sins,
The spectral echoes of a dead regret,
Are but the start of what our mind begins,
When we discover what we can't forget.
The sycophantic chorus of the mob,
The platitudinous cant of the profane,
Attempts to quell the existential throb,
And placate what we know is all in vain.
The cataleptic stillness of the soul,
When faced with its own nullity and end,
Is but a price exacted for the whole,
This futile journey where our lives transcend.
The apothegmatic nature of the lie,
The aphoristic poison of the creed,
Is but a final, whispered, cosmic cry,
A solitary, suffocating weed.
The esoterica of our final rites,
The hermetic arcana of our plea,
Is but a candle that we burn in nights,
To placate the indifferent, boundless sea.
The prolegomena to a greater myth,
A cosmogony of our own design,
Is built on nothing, and yet filled with pith,
An epigram upon a broken sign.
The solipsistic fortress of the mind,
A prison that we build for our own good,
Is all that we will ever hope to find,
Or ever hope to have misunderstood.
The aporia of being, and of thought,
The dialectic of the yes and no,
Is but a lesson that we all are taught,
A paradox that lets the spirit grow.
The panoply of reasons that we cite,
To justify the horror and the pain,
Is but a final, fading, feeble light,
A pallid, ineffectual, final stain.
The logomachy of the learned and the wise,
The academic bickering and fray,
Is but a prelude to the final sighs,
That mark the ending of our last, lost day.
The heterodoxy of the primal dream,
The atavistic longing for a past,
Is but a flotsam on a frigid stream,
A memory that was not built to last.
The eidolon of a future that's not real,
The utopian illusion of the soul,
Is just a wound we never want to heal,
A part that's sacrificed to feel the whole.
The apotheosis of the final form,
The perfect version that we want to be,
Is just a whisper in a cosmic storm,
A fleeting, fragile, and ironic decree.
The ineluctable shadow of the grave,
The inexorable march of final time,
Makes all our promises to keep, to save,
A sad and melancholic, petty rhyme.
The aporetic wonder of the child,
The questions that we all could never face,
Are lost and left upon a psychic wild,
A faded echo in a silent space.
The syzygy of the sacred and profane,
The juxtaposition of the dark and bright,
Is but the structure of our final rain,
A final comfort in our final night.
The anamorphism of the distant star,
A twisted picture from a bygone time,
Reminds us of how insignificant we are,
A cosmic whisper in a fragile rhyme.
The hypostasis of the coming end,
The substance of a future that we dread,
Is but a promise that we can't pretend
Has not been given since the world was bred.
The pleroma of the void, the empty all,
The fullness of the nothing that we face,
Is just a whisper, and a silent call,
That echoes in this cold, forgotten place.
The eschatology of the final word,
The last syllable that we can impart,
Is just a lie that we have all preferred,
A final poison for a fading heart.
The chrysalis of thought, the broken sheath,
From which no brighter form could ever spring,
Is all that we are left with underneath,
The bitter promise that we'll never sing.
The apotheosis of the final thought,
The perfect answer that we hope to find,
Is just a war that we have always fought,
Inside the lonely caverns of the mind.
The dialectical struggle for the light,
The aporia of the truth and of the lie,
Is but a final, agonizing fight,
A fatal question for a final sigh.
The demiurge of a corrupted will,
The maker of a world that's filled with pain,
Is just the silence when the world is still,
The echo of a long, forgotten rain.
The noumenal abyss of what's not known,
The numinous dread of all that we can't see,
Is but a harvest that we've never sown,
The barren crop of our eternity.
The hermetic language of the final plea,
The cabalistic whisper of the prayer,
Is but a bottle thrown into the sea,
An epitaph upon the final air.
The phantasmagoria of the final sight,
The broken images that fall and fade,
Is just the end of a long, lonely night,
A futile promise that was never made.
The teleology of the final end,
The purposeless purpose that we all project,
Is but a shadow, and we can't pretend
That there's a reason for what we inspect.
The apophatic naming of the void,
The giving name to what we cannot see,
Is but a final lie we have employed,
To justify our own futility.
The cataclysmic end of all that's known,
The entropy of what we have possessed,
Is just a final seed that has been sown,
The final promise of our final rest.
The protoplasmic stir of final death,
The atavistic memory of the clay,
Is just the whisper of the final breath,
The ending of our long, and lonely day.
The plangent echo of a broken vow,
The faded promise of a better thing,
Is all that we are left with, here and now,
The lonely song that we will never sing.
The exegesis of a broken dream,
The careful parsing of a final lie,
Is but the flotsam on a frigid stream,
The empty answer for a final sigh.
The anamnesis of a broken star,
The memory of a fire that has gone cold,
Reminds us of how insignificant we are,
And of a story that can not be told.
The hermeneutic circle of the soul,
The endless loop of question and reply,
Is but the striving for a final whole,
A fragile answer for a final why.
The antinomian freedom of the self,
The broken promise of a final good,
Is just a treasure on a barren shelf,
A thing that's never been, or understood.
The protoplasm of a primal dread,
The substance of a fear that has no name,
Is just the echo of a final head,
The final shadow of a fading flame.
The philomathic search for what is true,
The hunger for a knowledge we can't keep,
Is just a shadow of a thing that's new,
The fragile promise of a final sleep.
The teleological end of all that's made,
The final purpose that we all conceive,
Is just a shadow that we can't evade,
The final thing in which we can't believe.
The eschatological weight of all that's wrong,
The final sin that we can never face,
Is just the echo of a final song,
The final ending of a final space.
The atavistic pull of ancient bone,
The protoplasmic stirring of the past,
Is just a comfort that we've never known,
A final promise that can never last.
The panoply of what we cannot see,
The numinous terror of the final dread,
Is just the promise of a final plea,
The final whisper of a final head.
The hermetic circle of the final lie,
The endless loop of what we can't admit,
Is just the answer for a final why,
The final ending of a final writ.
The eidolon of a future that is gone,
The fading ghost of what we could have been,
Is just a memory of a distant dawn,
A fading whisper in a final scene.
The hypostasis of a final dream,
The substance of a hope that's gone to seed,
Is just the flotsam on a frozen stream,
The final comfort of a final creed.
The pleroma of a final, final void,
The fullness of a nothing that we face,
Is just the promise of a life that's been destroyed,
The final ending of a final place.
The apophatic naming of the final end,
The giving name to what we cannot know,
Is just a final lie we can't pretend
Has not been given to us, years ago.
The cataclysmic end of all that we possess,
The entropy of what we have believed,
Is just a final promise of a final, final rest,
The final ending we have all received.
The protoplasmic stir of all that has to be,
The final substance of a final lie,
Is just the ending of eternity,
The final answer for a final why.
The philomathic ending of the mind,
The final closing of a searching gaze,
Is just the end of what we could have find,
The ending of our lonely, ancient days.
The teleological whisper of the bone,
The primal purpose that we cannot see,
Is just a comfort that we've never known,
The final substance of our final plea.
The eschatological quiet of the dust,
The final ending of a final thought,
Is just the promise of a final rust,
The final battle that we've always fought.
The atavistic pull of final sleep,
The protoplasmic ending of the soul,
Is just a promise that we cannot keep,
The final journey to a final goal.
The panoply of what we can't conceive,
The numinous terror of the final lie,
Is just the final thing in which we can't believe,
The final ending of a final sky.
The hermetic circle of the final truth,
The endless loop of question and reply,
Is just the promise of a final youth,
The final answer to a final why.
The eidolon of a final, fading dream,
The ghost of what we could have been before,
Is just the whisper on a silent stream,
The final promise of an empty shore.
The hypostasis of a final, final end,
The substance of a hope that's gone to seed,
Is just the promise that we can't pretend,
The final comfort of a final creed.
The pleroma of a final, final void,
The fullness of a nothing that we see,
Is just a promise of a life that's been destroyed,
The final ending of eternity.
The philomathic turning of the key,
The unlocking of a door that's never been,
Is just the final thing that we can see,
The final end of a forgotten scene.
The teleological ending of the world,
The final purpose of a final plea,
Is just a promise that we've all been hurled,
Into the silence of a final sea.
The eschatological echo of the sound,
The final echo of a final word,
Is just a secret that can not be found,
The final promise that we've never heard.
The atavistic longing for the end,
The protoplasmic yearning for the dust,
Is just a wound that we cannot pretend
Has not been poisoned by a final trust.
The panoply of what we can't explain,
The numinous terror of a final god,
Is just the echo of a final rain,
The final ending of a final sod.
The hermetic circle of a final, fatal thought,
The endless loop of what we can't deny,
Is just the lesson that we've all been taught,
The final answer for a final why.
The eidolon of a final, empty space,
The ghost of what we could have been alone,
Is just the fading echo of a face,
The final ending of a final stone.
The hypostasis of a final, final dread,
The substance of a fear that has no name,
Is just the promise of a final head,
The final shadow of a fading flame.
The pleroma of a final, final word,
The fullness of a lie that has been told,
Is just the final thing that we have heard,
The final story of a life grown old.
The atavistic comfort of the night,
The protoplasmic promise of the earth,
Is just the closing of a final light,
The final ending of a final birth.
The panoply of what we have forgot,
The numinous terror of a final gaze,
Is just the ending of a final plot,
The final end of our mistaken maze.
The hermetic circle of a final, final dream,
The endless loop of what we can't recall,
Is just the ending of a silent stream,
The final ending of a final, final fall.
The eidolon of a final, fading face,
The ghost of what we could have been alone,
Is just the echo of a final space,
The final ending of a final stone.
The hypostasis of a final, final thought,
The substance of a fear that has no name,
Is just the final battle that we've always fought,
The final ending of a final flame.
The pleroma of a final, final lie,
The fullness of a word that has been told,
Is just the promise of a final, final sigh,
The final story of a life grown old.
The apophatic ending of the final name,
The giving name to what we can't conceive,
Is just the ending of a final flame,
The final promise that we can't believe.
The cataclysmic quiet of the final sleep,
The entropy of what we have become,
Is just the final secret that we have to keep,
The final ending of a final drum.
The protoplasmic stirring of the start,
The atavistic memory of the end,
Is just the ending of a broken heart,
The final ending of a final, final friend."end
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