With sesquipedalian ghosts of ancient lore,Where semiotic shadows, unalloyed,Gesticulate on history’s stygian floor.He traces glyphs of such phantasmagoria,That syntax bends beneath the weight of years;A necro-lexis, cold and desultoria,Incinerating all mundane frontiers.Behold the protagonist, an ascetic sage,Whose encephalon burns with vernal fire,Decoding every palimpsestic pageTo sate a transcendentalist desire.He stands before the gates of Aethelgard,A titan, by his own verbosity marred.
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