The Chthonic Chiaroscuro
The umbrageous night, a chthonic fugue, expands
Its fuliginous pallor over sun-bleached lands.
A rutilant afterglow, auric and sublime,
Is swallowed by the vespertine, a thief of time.
The air, a plenum of soporific sighs,
Beleaguers the soul where somnolence replies.
O, aedicular desires in their stygian cell,
Await the syncope from this terrestrial hell.
In the luculent hours, a palimpsest of days
Is overwritten by life’s mendacious maze.
We're spectral guests within a solipsistic play,
Where oneiromantic visions hold their fragile sway.
The panoply of memories, a vast, phantasmal hoard,
Lies obfuscated by a mind's own venal discord.
Thus we succumb, like lemmings to the sea,
To a quotidian trammel of inanity.
The phrenetic chase for some chimerical prize,
A hegemonic dream in our myopic eyes.
With febrile haste, we trace the anodyne design,
Of a life meticulously shaped by fate's capricious sign.
We fetishize the transient, the ephemeral and slight,
And find in its banality a curious, forced delight.
This peripatetic journey, sans a teleological end,
Finds us grasping for a substance on which to depend.
The ineffable truth, a cryptic, cosmic jest,
Awaits the intrepid soul to put it to the test.
Yet we prevaricate with words of such ornate deceit,
The prolix obfuscations that our own ears find so sweet.
We prefer the labyrinthine, the circuitous debate,
To the stark, unvarnished visage of our ultimate fate.
And so we dwell in phatic, verbose colloquy,
As if its sheer verbosity could set our spirits free.
The lambent gleam of reason, a fleeting, tender flame,
Is shadowed by the atavistic instincts we can't name.
The viscera demand their troglodytic due,
While the cerebral cortex pleads for things both pure and new.
This antinomy of being, this self-destructive plight,
Is played out in the tenebrous theater of the night.
Our anagnorisis deferred, a knowledge we avoid,
Lest the final revelation leaves us utterly destroyed.
For the human condition is a paradox of form,
A sentient anomaly in a thermodynamic storm.
We postulate on meaning, on a post-mortem state,
While our very corporal being hastens to its date.
The grand design is etched in such a baffling script,
A cosmic palimpsest where each new hope is ripped.
We're but a brief, a passing, cosmic interlude,
Before the final silence, vast and unconstrued.
This autotelic universe, indifferent and immense,
Is measured by a human-centric recompense.
Yet our epiphenomenal essence, a fleeting, fragile spark,
Flickers in the everlasting and primordial dark.
So, let us find a refuge in the recondite verse,
A momentary respite from this boundless universe.
Let the sesquipedalian lexicon impart its grand design,
And veil, with its extravagance, the meaning we divine.
The crepuscular descent, a cerulean bruise,
Reflects the indolent phantasms we refuse.
A miasmic lethargy, a psychic malaise,
Infests the cerebrum through the lengthening haze.
The ataractic lull of an unexamined life,
Is merely a prelude to the ontological strife.
We equivocate with conscience, a serpentine design,
And worship at the temple of the vicarious shrine.
The esurient soul, its appetence unslaked,
Is trapped in a simulacrum for its own false sake.
A factitious grandeur, an ersatz sublime,
Consumes the brief interstices of our borrowed time.
The pulchritudinous façade of our constructed day,
Cannot conceal the mordant truth that eats our hearts away.
For the existential void, a lacuna profound,
Is where our feckless ambitions ultimately are drowned.
The hypnagogic state, a liminal domain,
Where the noumenal and phenomenal merge and wane.
The oneiric imagery, a fevered, febrile stream,
Exposes the dark palimpsest beneath the waking dream.
We glimpse the ineluctable, the cosmic, cold decree,
And cower from the import of eternity.
This numinous perception, this sudden, dreadful gleam,
Is swiftly abrogated by the conscious, waking stream.
The grand peroration, a rhetorical conceit,
Asserts that our existence is inherently sweet.
Yet the gnomic truth, with aphoristic might,
Disputes this sophistry and plunges us in night.
The antinomian impulse, a recondite art,
Rejects the preordained script, and tears it all apart.
This clandestine rebellion, a deep and urgent need,
Is the only potent antidote to the anodyne creed.
So let the lexical deluge and the sonorous phrase,
Obfuscate the grim reality of our temporal days.
Let the intricate syntax and the elevated tone,
Build a verbal bastion to keep the truth unknown.
For in this polysyllabic, glorious, verbal fray,
We postpone the comprehension of our inevitable decay.
And in this sesquipedalian cacophony, we find,
A fleeting, fragile sanctuary for the tempest of the mind.
The noetic sphere, a phantasmagoria spun
From recondite musings 'neath a pallid, winter sun.
A haptic illusion, the sensorium's grand deceit,
Where the inchoate world and our percepts meet.
The noumenal essence, forever held at bay,
By the phenomenal filters of our conscious day.
A pleroma of thoughts, a motley, crowded press,
All striving for an order to explain the aimless mess.
This palingenesis of hope, a recurrent, fragile bloom,
Is promptly stifled by the inevitable tomb.
A chthonian instinct pulls us towards the primeval mire,
Away from the empyrean, from the consuming fire.
The eschatological dread, a quiet, subtle thrum,
Is the unacknowledged rhythm of the kingdom come.
We navigate this labyrinthine, dialectical maze,
And are consumed by the syzygy of our perplexing days.
The anomie of the modern, a soul-sickness profound,
Where anomie and acedia abound.
We fetishize the simulacra, the copy of the copy's twin,
And seek an anodyne solace in the digital din.
The hypnopompic moment, an instant poised in flight,
Between the oneiric darkness and the waking light.
We are epiphenomenal motes in a causal-deterministic flow,
A transient ephemeron in a vast, unending show.
The prolepsis of the future, a shadow cast ahead,
Fills us with a silent, an existential dread.
The ineluctable conclusion, the pre-ordained finale,
Eviscerates the import of this temporal valley.
Our gnomic utterances, a solipsistic creed,
Are born from the barren soil of a petulant, human need.
To find a meaning grafted onto meaning's empty frame,
And lend a cosmic purpose to our individual name.
The liminal space of twilight, the penumbral hour,
Grows ponderous with the burden of its fading power.
A fulvous, nascent moonlight, with nascent, brittle gleam,
Becomes the hierophant of a forgotten dream.
The sciamachy of intellect, the wrestling with the shade,
Is a quixotic contest that our feckless minds have made.
And the parousia of silence, a vast, expectant hush,
Awaits the final consummation in a cosmic, timeless rush.
The autotelic universe, a cosmos without care,
Is reflected in the misanthropic, self-loathing stare.
The numinous sublime, a dreadful, holy thing,
Is subsumed by the pettiness of the hymns we sing.
The aporia of reason, the logical cul-de-sac,
Leaves us staring at the void from which there is no turning back.
And the apotheosis of nothing, the final, cold embrace,
Is the sole and bitter solace in this desolate, empty space.
The quotidian trammel, the banal, endless round,
Is where our fragile aspirations are most surely drowned.
The haptic world, a texture of sorrow and of strain,
Leaves an indelible impression of a ceaseless, bitter pain.
The ebullient spring, a verdant, vibrant lie,
Gives way to the sere, sepulchral days beneath a leaden sky.
And the melancholia of autumn, a maudlin, deep disease,
Is but a faint reflection of the ultimate unease.
The mendacious nature of the human, twisted mind,
Is a labyrinth of motive, of an inscrutable kind.
A concatenation of deceits, a sophistical design,
To justify the squalor at the core of the divine.
The syncretic faith, a patchwork of despair,
Is an ineffectual prayer cast upon the empty air.
And the peripatetic search for some ontological proof,
Is a futile, aimless wandering upon a fragile roof.
The cosmic interlude, the fleeting, transient span,
Is the self-deluded focus of our narcissistic plan.
We posit some grand future, some glorious, far-off state,
While the infinitesimal present is consumed by trivial fate.
This hegemonic dream of order, this ideological plight,
Cannot withstand the onslaught of the chthonic, primal night.
And the final, pale surrender, the acceptance of the fact,
Is a silent, bitter treaty, a cold and hollow pact.
The fuliginous shroud of night, a vast, enveloping pall,
Becomes the final witness to the silent, cosmic fall.
The rutilant hues of sunset, a valedictory flame,
Are extinguished by the coming of the chthonic, ancient name.
And in this vespertine darkness, the silent, spectral soul,
Yields to the syncope of the ultimate control.
The aedicular mind, its sacred contents plundered,
Becomes the empty vessel by which our truth is sundered.
This autotelic cosmos, with its cold and vacant stare,
Reflects the empty promise of our human-centric prayer.
The effete ephemera of our mortal, fading grace,
Is swallowed by the nullity of the unending space.
And the quiddity of being, the essence we hold dear,
Dissolves within the entropy, the ever-present fear.
This solipsistic play, a tragic, hollow act,
Is the final, crushing burden of the unspoken, bitter pact.
The preterite and the pretertemporal, a tapestry of thought,
Is unravelled by the nihilistic vision that we have sought.
The atavistic urges, the subterranean flood,
Corrupt the placid surface of our cerebral blood.
The panoply of reason, with its glittering, vain display,
Is disarmed by the darkness of the closing, fading day.
And the lambent, fragile glimmer of a hopeful, fading light,
Is the final, frail surrender to the long and empty night.
The fulvous, crepuscular, a silent, bleeding bruise,
Reflects the bitter sorrow of the dreams we all must lose.
The palimpsest of moments, the overwritten past,
Is a sepulchral testament, a final, hollow cast.
The anagnorisis of our fate, a truth we must embrace,
Is the dissolution of our soul within the empty space.
And the syncretic echoes of a hundred, empty creeds,
Are scattered by the gale, like unproductive seeds.
The panoply of being, a flawed and brittle art,
Is a testament to sorrow in a solitary heart.
The pleroma of the ego, a self-important cry,
Dissolves into the nothing underneath an empty sky.
The hypnagogic vision, a mirage in the mind's dark keep,
Is a fleeting, fragile solace in the final, endless sleep.
And the chthonic call of silence, a subterranean hum,
Is the final, crushing summons of a world forever numb.
The eschatological horror, the terror and the pain,
Are a fleeting, false portent of the ultimate rain.
For the rain will fall on nothing, upon the vacant ground,
Where no echo of our passing will be heard or ever found.
The vespertine, in darkness, is a final, cold reprieve,
From the empty, mendacious fictions that we desperately believe.
And the autotelic gesture, the solitary act,
Is but a pointless tribute to a cold and empty fact.
The aporia of knowing, the logic's final flaw,
Is the silent, bitter ending of a cosmic, pointless war.
The hypnopompic waking, a brief and fevered dream,
Reveals the final truth within the empty, silent stream.
The peripatetic questing, the tireless, empty pace,
Is but a futile circling in a cold and boundless space.
And the final, brutal silence, the void with vacant stare,
Is the final, cold concession to the absence everywhere.
The phantasmagoric specter of the mind,
A syncretic construct of a fleeting, frail design.
A palimpsest of mem'ries, etched upon the soul,
Awaiting its own entropy to finally take its toll.
The noetic impulse, with its brief and feeble plea,
Is swallowed by the nullity of what is yet to be.
This pleroma of the ego, this vainglorious art,
Is but a fragile fiction played within the weary heart.
The cerulean bruise of twilight, a slow and heavy stain,
Is the herald of a darkness filled with melancholic pain.
The miasmic haze of slumber, a toxic, heavy shroud,
Is the sepulchral testament to our lost, ambitions loud.
The hypnopompic whisper, a faint and fleeting sound,
Is the ultimate concession on this cold and vacant ground.
We acquiesce to silence, a final, long repose,
As the fragile, feckless tapestry of our existence goes.
The aporia of reason, the logic's final, brutal fall,
Is the silent, bitter ending of the cosmic, pointless ball.
The hypnagogic vision, a mirage in the mind's dark keep,
Is a fleeting, fragile solace in the final, endless sleep.
The peripatetic questing, the tireless, empty pace,
Is but a futile circling in a cold and boundless space.
And the brutal, final silence, the void with vacant stare,
Is the silent, cold concession to the absence everywhere.
The esurient soul, its appetence unslaked,
Is trapped in a simulacrum for its own false sake.
A factitious grandeur, an ersatz sublime,
Consumes the brief interstices of our borrowed time.
The pulchritudinous façade of our constructed day,
Cannot conceal the mordant truth that eats our hearts away.
For the existential void, a lacuna profound,
Is where our feckless ambitions ultimately are drowned.
The hypnagogic state, a liminal domain,
Where the noumenal and phenomenal merge and wane.
The oneiric imagery, a fevered, febrile stream,
Exposes the dark palimpsest beneath the waking dream.
We glimpse the ineluctable, the cosmic, cold decree,
And cower from the import of eternity.
This numinous perception, this sudden, dreadful gleam,
Is swiftly abrogated by the conscious, waking stream.
The grand peroration, a rhetorical conceit,
Asserts that our existence is inherently sweet.
Yet the gnomic truth, with aphoristic might,
Disputes this sophistry and plunges us in night.
The antinomian impulse, a recondite art,
Rejects the preordained script, and tears it all apart.
This clandestine rebellion, a deep and urgent need,
Is the only potent antidote to the anodyne creed.
The fuliginous descent, the obfuscating fog,
Enshrouds the lucent wisdom of the mind's grand monologue.
The quiddity of being, the essence we hold dear,
Is a phantom of our own devising, a transient, baseless fear.
The atavistic undertow, the primal, grasping hold,
Is a story that is told anew, a tale both grim and old.
And the lambent, fragile glimmer of a hopeful, fading light,
Is the last, frail hope of daylight in the overwhelming night.
The umbrageous night, a chthonic fugue, expands,
Its fuliginous pallor over sun-bleached lands.
A rutilant afterglow, auric and sublime,
Is swallowed by the vespertine, a thief of time.
The air, a plenum of soporific sighs,
Beleaguers the soul where somnolence replies.
O, aedicular desires in their stygian cell,
Await the syncope from this terrestrial hell.
In the luculent hours, a palimpsest of days,
Is overwritten by life’s mendacious maze.
We're spectral guests within a solipsistic play,
Where oneiromantic visions hold their fragile sway.
The panoply of memories, a vast, phantasmal hoard,
Lies obfuscated by a mind's own venal discord.
Thus we succumb, like lemmings to the sea,
To a quotidian trammel of inanity.
The phrenetic chase for some chimerical prize,
A hegemonic dream in our myopic eyes.
With febrile haste, we trace the anodyne design,
Of a life meticulously shaped by fate's capricious sign.
We fetishize the transient, the ephemeral and slight,
And find in its banality a curious, forced delight.
This peripatetic journey, sans a teleological end,
Finds us grasping for a substance on which to depend.
The ineffable truth, a cryptic, cosmic jest,
Awaits the intrepid soul to put it to the test.
Yet we prevaricate with words of such ornate deceit,
The prolix obfuscations that our own ears find so sweet.
We prefer the labyrinthine, the circuitous debate,
To the stark, unvarnished visage of our ultimate fate.
And so we dwell in phatic, verbose colloquy,
As if its sheer verbosity could set our spirits free.
The lambent gleam of reason, a fleeting, tender flame,
Is shadowed by the atavistic instincts we can't name.
The viscera demand their troglodytic due,
While the cerebral cortex pleads for things both pure and new.
This antinomy of being, this self-destructive plight,
Is played out in the tenebrous theater of the night.
Our anagnorisis deferred, a knowledge we avoid,
Lest the final revelation leaves us utterly destroyed.
For the human condition is a paradox of form,
A sentient anomaly in a thermodynamic storm.
We postulate on meaning, on a post-mortem state,
While our very corporal being hastens to its date.
The grand design is etched in such a baffling script,
A cosmic palimpsest where each new hope is ripped.
We're but a brief, a passing, cosmic interlude,
Before the final silence, vast and unconstrued.
This autotelic universe, indifferent and immense,
Is measured by a human-centric recompense.
Yet our epiphenomenal essence, a fleeting, fragile spark,
Flickers in the everlasting and primordial dark.
So, let us find a refuge in the recondite verse,
A momentary respite from this boundless universe.
Let the sesquipedalian lexicon impart its grand design,
And veil, with its extravagance, the meaning we divine.
The crepuscular descent, a cerulean bruise,
Reflects the indolent phantasms we refuse.
A miasmic lethargy, a psychic malaise,
Infests the cerebrum through the lengthening haze.
The ataractic lull of an unexamined life,
Is merely a prelude to the ontological strife.
We equivocate with conscience, a serpentine design,
And worship at the temple of the vicarious shrine.
The esurient soul, its appetence unslaked,
Is trapped in a simulacrum for its own false sake.
A factitious grandeur, an ersatz sublime,
Consumes the brief interstices of our borrowed time.
The pulchritudinous façade of our constructed day,
Cannot conceal the mordant truth that eats our hearts away.
For the existential void, a lacuna profound,
Is where our feckless ambitions ultimately are drowned.
The hypnagogic state, a liminal domain,
Where the noumenal and phenomenal merge and wane.
The oneiric imagery, a fevered, febrile stream,
Exposes the dark palimpsest beneath the waking dream.
We glimpse the ineluctable, the cosmic, cold decree,
And cower from the import of eternity.
This numinous perception, this sudden, dreadful gleam,
Is swiftly abrogated by the conscious, waking stream.
The grand peroration, a rhetorical conceit,
Asserts that our existence is inherently sweet.
Yet the gnomic truth, with aphoristic might,
Disputes this sophistry and plunges us in night.
The antinomian impulse, a recondite art,
Rejects the preordained script, and tears it all apart.
This clandestine rebellion, a deep and urgent need,
Is the only potent antidote to the anodyne creed.
So let the lexical deluge and the sonorous phrase,
Obfuscate the grim reality of our temporal days.
Let the intricate syntax and the elevated tone,
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