Echolalia at the Orphic Hour
The plangent susurrus of the demilune,
a chthonic grimoire upon the glade,
where hypogeal currents hum a silent rune,
and eidetic specters waltz unafraid.
A concatenation of auric sighs,
transmuting stasis into ambergris,
before the prothalamion of the skies
consummates its apocryphal bliss.
The limbic strata, a palimpsest of dread,
where paramnesia paints the cicatrice,
and an anachronistic dirge is said
for a synecdoche of an obsequious peace.
A phosphenic echo, a seraphic pang,
dissolves the isochronous façade,
while from the chancel, the tautologic clang
of vesper bells betrays the masquerade
A grimoire's glossolalia, darkly penned,
in omphalic cyphers of the deep,
where psychic caesuras bend,
and somnolent chimeras sleep.
The phatic murmur of a carious bone,
a rusticated relic, still and grim,
a hierophant's apocryphal moan,
on the littoral edge of a vesper's whim.
An atavistic echo, a synclastic cry,
a palimpsest of sorrow, finely wrought,
beneath a crepuscular and jaded sky,
where numinous ephemera are caught.
The hypogeal rivers, cold and slow,
carry the susurrus of a feral dream,
where metanoia whispers come and go,
within the rheum of a limbic stream.
A concatenation of monadic pain,
a thaumaturge's cryptic, silent plea,
a paramnesia in the winter rain,
for what was and what cannot ever be.
The chthonic threnody, a soundless wail,
a sciolist's presumption, thin and weak,
a nacreous, translucent, spectral veil,
across the prothalamion of the meek.
A peripatetic shadow, wan and gaunt,
a stygian, oubliette of forgotten things,
the eidolon of a remembered haunt,
where a dyslogistic requiem sings.
The lacustrine lament of a quiet heart,
the sclerotic murmur of a fading hope,
a cosmic elegy ripped apart,
with a tautologic and constricting rope.
A phosphenic flicker in the mind's dark eye,
the isochronous clanging of a bell,
a synecdoche of a forgotten "why,"
a dysphasic fable of heaven and hell.
The seraphic pang of a celestial doubt,
a malapropism whispered in the dark,
a querulous, rhetorical shout,
from the hypostatic embers of a spark.
A heuristic vision, dim and incomplete,
the obfuscated meaning of a myth,
the halcyon days, both sour and sweet,
before the soul was severed from the pith.
A neoteric sorrow, newly born,
a purblind impulse, a benighted way,
the asyndetic promise of a morn,
that will never break to a full day.
The sesquipedalian weight of heavy years,
the plangent, wistful hum of what is lost,
the apophatic genesis of fears,
the paralogistic calculus of cost.
An heuristic shadow in the gloaming's haze,
the eschatological and final gleam,
the anachronistic maze of winding days,
the katabatic fall into a dream.
A noetic terror, cold and absolute,
a patulous silence, deeply felt,
the paronomastic seed of bitter fruit,
the anagnorisis that was never spelt.
A micturating ghost in a hollowed room,
a liminal passage, a forgotten door,
the proleptic terror of a certain doom,
the anamnestic echo of what came before.
The obfuscatory smoke of a burning thought,
the soporific cadence of a lie,
the periphrastic meaning newly caught,
in the diaphanous tears of a weeping eye.
The hermeneutic darkness, deep and vast,
a peripatetic soul, a wandering sight,
the eschatological and final cast,
before the closing of the endless night.
A synchronic vision, brief and profound,
a solipsistic whisper, soft and low,
on the catabatic and falling ground,
where the eidetic currents softly flow.
A paralogistic reason, bent and old,
the antinomian impulse of a soul,
the epiphanic story, seldom told,
to make the shattered pieces whole.
A preterite promise, faded and worn,
a kenotic emptying of all that's real,
a phaneroscopic vision newly born,
a synesthetic wound that cannot heal.
The sesquipedalian terror of the void,
the chimerical promise, softly sung,
a malapropistic comfort, now destroyed,
the dysphasic story, from which grief is sprung.
An hegemonic silence, all consuming,
a tautologic truth that turns to ash,
the apophatic, fragile, sweet perfuming,
the hypostatic, swift and final crash.
The hypogeal roots of a forgotten tree,
a limbic echo from a sunken past,
the querulous, atavistic memory,
the paralogistic die is finally cast.
A nosological obsession, grim and dark,
a katabatic fall from all that's right,
the isochronous, cold and single spark,
that lights the darkness of a lonely night.
A paramnesic whisper, soft and deep,
the obfuscated meaning of a tear,
the eidetic promise that we try to keep,
the anagnorisis of a waking fear.
The prosopopoeia of a hollowed name,
a nacreous, translucent, spectral thing,
the dysphasic telling of a burning flame,
the apocryphal song a vesper's wing.
A neoteric sorrow, born of fractured space,
the purblind impulse, stumbling in the haze,
the isochronous terror of a single place,
the anamnestic ghost of ancient days.
The synecdoche of a broken, fleeting glance,
the epiphanic sorrow of a mind,
a heuristic, momentary, fleeting dance,
the antinomian chaos left behind.
The querulous, rhetorical and final plea,
the chimerical desire, thin and small,
a halcyon, sweet and painful memory,
a cosmic elegy that holds us all.
A dyslogistic chant, a litany of blame,
the soporific comfort, soft and low,
the phosphenic terror of a fading name,
the peripatetic spirit, come and go.
An obfuscatory smoke, a rising cloud,
the sclerotic murmur of a fading vow,
a monadic, lonely, and silent crowd,
the anachronistic meaning of a "now."
The micturating ghosts of a forgotten pain,
the concatenated feeling, sharp and new,
a plangent susurrus in the quiet rain,
the paralogistic promise, false and true.
The noetic terror, cold and absolute,
a tautologic truth that comes undone,
the patulous, silent, and bitter root,
the hypostatic ending, newly spun.
A solipsistic whisper, just for me,
the esoteric shadow of a loss,
the atavistic, fleeting memory,
the paralogistic, final, heavy cross.
The isochronous terror, sharp and bright,
the anamnestic echo of a fallen dream,
the querulous and endless, lonely night,
the katabatic journey on a fading stream.
The proleptic terror of a certain end,
the antinomian impulse of the heart,
a heuristic promise, a broken friend,
the eschatological and final part.
The sesquipedalian weight of heavy dread,
a chthonic grimoire opened in the dark,
a phaneroscopic vision from the dead,
the somnolent, and final, silent mark.
The obfuscated meaning of a sacred text,
a lacustrine lament of things undone,
the neoteric future, what comes next,
the preterite promise of a dying sun.
A peripatetic echo, dimly heard,
the sclerotic hope of a fading sound,
the paralogistic, final spoken word,
on the hypogeal and falling ground.
The dysphasic story, hard to understand,
the atavistic impulse, strong and old,
the querulous, and cold, and empty hand,
the prothalamion of a story untold.
A concatenated meaning, come and gone,
the periphrastic promise, thin and weak,
the monadic feeling, all alone,
the apocryphal silence of the meek.
The malapropistic comfort, softly found,
the esoteric hope, a single sign,
the chimerical terror, all around,
the hypostatic breaking of the line.
A querulous, rhetorical and fading light,
the paralogistic terror of the end,
the phosphenic flicker in the deepest night,
the anagnorisis, broken and unbent.
The isochronous clanging of a memory,
the anamnestic whisper, soft and slow,
the antinomian, wild and endless sea,
the katabatic feeling, come and go.
The preterite promise, lost within the mist,
the eschatological and final form,
the kenotic ending, never to be kissed,
the phaneroscopic silence of the storm.
The dyslogistic chant of heavy loss,
the soporific dream, both false and true,
the hypostatic, heavy, gilded cross,
the noetic, painful, and eternal hue.
The solipsistic terror of a fading dream,
the obfuscatory shadow, thick and deep,
the monadic vision on a frozen stream,
the sesquipedalian secrets that we keep.
A peripatetic meaning, lost to all,
the antinomian impulse, rising fast,
the paralogistic, endless, empty call,
the atavistic future, from the past.
The dysphasic promise, never to be heard,
the querulous, final and pathetic sight,
the concatenated meaning of a spoken word,
the esoteric darkness of the coming night.
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