Salt Index And Other collections.(E.P.)

I. The Salt Index

The littoral margin, a shiver of rust,

remembers the tide before the calendar.

Here, the seamed gull's cry is a theorem of rust.

A parallax of bones against the salt index.

The archive of the shore: a cipher, not a ledger.

Each spent mollusk, a zero without purpose.

The wind, a ghost with its own grammar,

inscribes a syntax of dispersal.

The ferryman, a habit of ochre and oil,

rows toward a horizon defined by a shrug.

He measures nothing but the undoing of coil,

the slow unspooling of the nautical tug.

And the sun, a coin spent to no effect,

dims beyond the promontory's etched grief.

The littoral margin, a final, cold defect,

a memory that has turned its own page.

II. Gnomon and the Unsaid

The gnomon's shadow, not a line, but a history,

recalls the sun in a language of forgetting.

Its silence is a glossary of the unsaid,

a stone tongue tasting the day's long defeat.

The hour moves on and the stillness deepens.

A moth, the ghost of a theorem, flutters.

The air is the color of a question,

the temperature of a promise broken.

We collect the refuse of the day—

the brittle leaf, the shattered glass of light,

the half-formed thought that slips away.

Each fragment is a witness to the night.

The gnomon's shadow, a wound upon the grass,

measures not the light, but what is lost.

The clock's heart is a ticking carapace,

counting the cost of what it cannot count.

III. The Third Mirror

It was the third mirror that broke the others.

Not with a crash, but with a silent expansion.

The first had offered a history, the second a future.

The third held only the space between them.

A syntax of splintered glass, where everything

is both reflection and the thing reflected.

The face in the shard was not your own,

but a possibility you had overlooked.

The room, a geometry of broken perspectives,

is filled with the echoes of a truth unsaid.

You trace the fractures with your finger,

a map of a city that was never built.

The third mirror, a quiet, perfect ruin,

holds the ghost of a thousand departures.

And in the silent, glass-strewn room,

the future is a past you've yet to live.

IV. The Grammar of Dust

The grammar of dust, a dialect of descent,

binds the fallen leaf to the broken pane.

In the lexicon of erasure, a memory is spent,

and the last word spoken is the first rain.

The syntax of silence is an infinite tense,

a negative space where the vowel used to be.

We conjugate the empty with a false pretense,

a prayer to a god that is never to see.

Each consonant a ruin, each syllable a rust,

the sentence fractures, a brittle spine.

The period is a small, cold fist of dust,

the final clause a shadow, not a sign.

And from this wreckage, a whisper ascends,

a final utterance, a ghost of sound.

The grammar of dust, a loop that never ends,

the history of what cannot be found.

V. Cartographer's Mistake

The cartographer drew a coastline of disbelief,

a jagged edge where the atlas came unglued.

He charted a bay of unspoken grief,

and a continent whose truth was misconstrued.

The mountain range is a rumor of bone,

the river a scar that has healed inward.

The archipelagoes are names, un-stone,

the wind an archipelago of murmured word.

He mapped the silence with an empty scale,

marked the unsaid with a careful line.

The horizon is a promise set to fail,

the longitude a kind of false design.

And in the blank spaces, where no legend lies,

the true geography begins to bloom.

The cartographer's mistake, with open eyes,

is a map of every single empty room.

VI. The Glass Animal

The glass animal, fragile and full of light,

remembers nothing but the dust of suns.

It watches from the shelf the slow decline of night,

and waits for history, which never comes.

A still geometry of breath and sound,

it knows the logic of the sudden fall.

It bears the weight of the air, without a pound,

and sees, through its transparent self, all.

The third-floor window, a portrait of the sea,

reflects a tide that is not really there.

And the glass animal, knowing it is free,

watches the dust motes dance inside the air.

It breaks the room with a silent, sharp explosion,

not with a noise, but with a sudden, final thought.

The glass animal, a prism of devotion,

becomes the image that it always sought.

VII. The Clock's Absence

We marked the hours by the clock's absence.

The sun was a theory, the moon a kind of scar.

In the empty room, we learned a new tense,

a verb that meant to be not where you are.

The pendulum, a memory of a hand,

swung in the silence, an imagined arc.

We measured days by the drift of sand,

the slow extinguishing of a mental spark.

The chime was a ghost, a sound recalled

from a dream the mind had long since lost.

We grew accustomed to being uninstalled,

and paying the silence its impossible cost.

The clock's absence, a quiet, perfect ruin,

told the time of what was left behind.

We learned to move within the silent doing,

and left the minutes tangled in the mind.

VIII. The Second Skin

The second skin, a map without a land,

is worn beneath the weather of the day.

It charts the tremor of a forgotten hand,

and marks the place where the feeling went away.

It is a tissue woven from the unsaid,

a chronicle of what could not be shown.

It holds the echoes of the promises made,

a kind of silence that has learned to moan.

The cities of the body, a foreign script,

are written in a language no one knows.

The second skin, in which the mind is trapped,

grows inward, with the way the memory goes.

And when you shed it, in a moment of surprise,

you find the self you thought you'd left behind.

The second skin, with its unblinking eyes,

is a photograph of what you could not find.

IX. Inverted Weather

The rain falls upward in the inverted weather.

Each drop ascends, a quiet, certain tear.

The leaves, a memory of torn leather,

cling to the branches of the dying year.

The sun sets backward, a final act of grace.

The light returns to where the light began.

A silence grows inside this empty space,

a ghost of what it means to be a man.

The river, a mirror of the un-moving sky,

reverses its current, an imagined stream.

The fish swim upward, on their way to die,

and all of life becomes a sleeping dream.

The inverted weather, a slow and certain ruin,

reminds the world of what it once forgot.

The rain falls upward, a final, slow undoing,

the quiet language of what is and is not.

X. The Impossible Bird

The impossible bird, with feathers of broken glass,

sings in a language of splintered light.

Its voice, a melody that cannot pass

the edge of evening, where the day meets night.

It builds its nest of questions without answers,

of syllables that are themselves a stone.

It watches from the branches, not a dancer,

but a still geometry, entirely alone.

It is the echo of a forgotten sound,

the inverse image of a sudden flight.

The impossible bird, nowhere to be found,

sings in the silence of what is not right.

And when it takes to air, it does not fly,

but falls forever, upward toward the sun.

The impossible bird, a theorem in the sky,

the shadow of a race that has not run.

XI. The Lexicon of Bone

The skeleton remembers a different language,

a tongue of calcium and silent, articulated grief.

Each joint a forgotten clause, a sentence of salvage,

each vertebra a vowel lost in a brittle brief.

The tibia, a chapter on departure,

the ulna, a footnote on a kind of grace.

The metacarpal, a failed architectural gesture,

holding nothing in an empty space.

We trace the outlines of a story not our own,

a grammar taught by an anonymous hand.

In the lexicon of bone, we are entirely alone,

a final draft in a language we don't understand.

The marrow, a history of whispered failures,

the ribcage, a broken cage around a song.

The skull, a theatre of forgotten players,

holding the echo of where the words went wrong.

XII. The Architecture of Silence

The room is built of silence, a perfect cube,

each wall a memory of a sound not made.

The floor, a theory on which nothing is laid,

the ceiling, a witness to a question not proved.

The light, a single word, falls through the window,

a foreign dialect on the carpet's dust.

The furniture, a grammar of what we cannot know,

a logic of forgetting, a kind of rust.

We live within the architecture of absence,

each footstep a testament to the un-trod.

The air, a testament to a broken pretense,

a prayer offered to an empty god.

The blueprint of the house is not a map,

but a chronicle of all that was lost.

The room of silence, a slow and patient trap,

holding the final weight of what it cost.

XIII. The Cartography of Rust

The map of rust on the weathered iron gate

is not a geography of time, but of surrender.

Each flaked layer a gesture of a slower fate,

a quiet chronicle of what we dismember.

The lines are not rivers, but fissures of regret,

the patina is not age, but a kind of forgetting.

The hinge, a pivot on a promise not yet

undone, a logic on which the sun is setting.

We read the map with fingertips, not with eyes,

a blind geography of texture and slow decay.

We feel the silent language as it dies,

the quiet argument of a slow-erasing day.

The cartography of rust, a final, perfect lie,

tells us a story of a place we have not been.

The gate stands open, beneath an empty sky,

and the map is the history of what we've seen.

XIV. The Unwritten Psalm

The unwritten psalm, a music made of stone,

is sung by shadows in a room of bone.

Each syllable a prayer, a kind of loan,

a silent argument for being alone.

The words are lost, but the meaning is clear,

the final lesson of the quiet hand.

The unwritten psalm, an echo of what we fear,

the only language that we understand.

The music fills the empty space between,

the silent language of a broken god.

The unwritten psalm, a story in a scene

of dust and silence, of the un-trod.

XV. The Last Portrait

The last portrait holds a face that is not there,

a final study of a finished thing.

The eyes are echoes of a different air,

the mouth, a memory of a silent sing.

The colors are a lexicon of gray and brown,

a muted language of a finished race.

The canvas holds the weight of a forgotten town,

the silent chronicle of a final place.

The artist's hand is a kind of ghostly touch,

a final gesture on a ruined space.

The paint, a testament to needing so much,

but finding nothing in a final chase.

The last portrait, a final, perfect lie,

tells us a story that has long since passed.

The face is gone, but the echo in the eye,

is a quiet monument that is meant to last.

The choir is a kind of waiting,

the melody, a testament to a forgotten sound.

The notes are prayers, not forating,

a silent, perfect music.

XVI. The Unfolding of Light

The light does not arrive; it is already here,

a geometry of stillness against the pane.

It is a language that has no fear,

a testament of what is left of rain.

The prism, a memory of a forgotten hand,

is shattered across the wall in silent dust.

Each shard a truth you cannot understand,

a final chronicle of a sudden gust.

The room is filled with a kind of empty glow,

a photograph of a moment that has gone.

The light, a quiet architecture of what we know,

is shattered in the moment before dawn.

And in this silence, the memory begins to bloom,

a second language spoken by the sun.

The unfolding of light, a closing room,

a story that is only now begun.

XVII. The Memory of a Map

The map was drawn on skin, not on a chart,

a faint cartography of scar and line.

Each tremor of the hand, a missing part,

a testament to a failed design.

The rivers were not water, but a kind of thought,

the mountains, a geology of broken vows.

The constellations, a battle that was fought,

the silent echo of the turning plows.

The cartographer's pen was not ink, but ash,

a final gesture on a ruined space.

The map, a chronicle of a fatal crash,

the silent memory of a finished race.

And when we trace the border with our hand,

we do not find a place we've seen.

The memory of a map, a foreign land,

is the only history we have of what has been.

XVIII. The Sound of Nothing

The sound of nothing is a kind of hum,

a white noise of a future that has gone.

It is the silence that has overcome

the quiet whisper of a distant dawn.

The air is filled with an inverted cry,

a sound that has forgotten how to start.

It is the color of a waiting sky,

a silent argument for a broken heart.

We listen for a melody to break,

a single note to prove that we are here.

The sound of nothing, for its own sake,

is the final music that we have to fear.

And in this silence, the language starts to bloom,

a single syllable of a forgotten name.

The sound of nothing in a closing room,

a final echo of a final flame.

XIX. The City's Geometry

The city's geometry is a silent wound,

a shattered compass on a broken hand.

The streets, a chronicle of what is doomed,

the avenues, a lost and foreign land.

The buildings are a lexicon of rust and glass,

a silent testament to a dying sun.

The air is filled with what will come to pass,

a language that has only just begun.

We walk the streets with a kind of empty grace,

a silent prayer for a forgotten name.

The city's geometry, a finished space,

a final echo of a dying flame.

And in the silence, the architecture starts to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The city's geometry, a single room,

a lesson that was never truly taught.

XX. The Clock's Unwinding

The clock's unwinding is a kind of hush,

a silent argument for a sudden fall.

The hours are a kind of quiet rush,

a silent answer to a hidden call.

The hands are ghosts, a language of delay,

a silent chronicle of a different time.

The face is a kind of lexicon of gray,

a final echo of a finished chime.

We live within the shadow of the clock's decay,

a final gesture on a ruined space.

The clock's unwinding is a final, perfect day,

a final echo of a finished race.

And in the silence, the gears begin to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The clock's unwinding in a closing room,

a memory that was never truly caught.

XXI. The Inaccessible Photograph

The photograph arrives without a frame,

a perfect square of an empty sky.

The figures, a geometry of a name

you have forgotten, or a kind of lie.

The edges of the image are frayed with time,

a silent testament to a slow decay.

The faces, a lexicon of a finished rhyme,

a quiet echo of a finished day.

You hold it in your hand, and feel the weight

of what is lost, but was never truly seen.

The inaccessible photograph, a final state,

a photograph of a place where you have been.

XXII. The Anatomy of a Whisper

The whisper is not sound, but a kind of thought,

a silent gesture of a sudden fall.

It is the language that the wind has caught,

a chronicle of a quiet, hidden call.

The anatomy of a whisper is a silent wound,

a shattered grammar on a broken hand.

The syllables, a lexicon of what is doomed,

the vowels, a lost and foreign land.

We listen for a melody to break,

a single utterance to prove that we are here.

The whisper, for its own silent sake,

is the final music that we have to fear.

And in this silence, the echo starts to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The anatomy of a whisper in a closing room,

a memory that was never truly caught.

XXIII. The Cartography of Grief

The map of grief is drawn on paper thin as air,

a silent geography of a hidden place.

The streets, a lexicon of a final prayer,

the avenues, a lost and finished race.

The cities are a chronicle of what is lost,

a silent testament to a dying sun.

The air is filled with what will come at a cost,

a language that has only just begun.

We trace the borders with a kind of empty grace,

a silent prayer for a forgotten name.

The cartography of grief, a finished space,

a final echo of a dying flame.

And in the silence, the architecture starts to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The cartography of grief, a single room,

a lesson that was never truly taught.

XXIV. The Hour of Glass

The hour of glass is not an hour, but a state,

a silent chronicle of a sudden fall.

The sand, a lexicon of a finished fate,

a quiet echo of a hidden call.

The gears are ghosts, a language of delay,

a silent testament to a different time.

The face is a kind of grammar of decay,

a final echo of a finished chime.

We live within the shadow of the hour's unmaking,

a final gesture on a ruined space.

The hour of glass, a final, perfect waking,

a final echo of a finished race.

And in the silence, the sand begins to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The hour of glass in a closing room,

a memory that was never truly caught.

XXV. The Unfinished Letter

The letter is not words, but a kind of thought,

a silent gesture of a sudden fall.

The sentences, a lexicon of what was sought,

a quiet echo of a hidden call.

The paper is a silent, folded prayer,

a chronicle of what could not be shown.

The ink, a geography of a sudden tear,

a final, perfect seed that was not sown.

We read the spaces, not the words, with a kind of empty grace,

a silent prayer for a forgotten name.

The unfinished letter, a finished space,

a final echo of a dying flame.

And in the silence, the language starts to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of thought.

The unfinished letter in a closing room,

a memory that was never truly caught.

The light is faded, like a broken vow,

the faces, a memory of a finished race.

The inaccessible photograph, a kind of now,

a silent chronicle of an empty space.

Continuing to build upon the unconventional, fragmented, and symbolic poetic style, here are further challenging poems.

XXVI. The Geometry of the Second Thought

The second thought arrives, a fractured line,

a crooked axis on a ruined graph.

It measures not the distance, but the time

between the first thought and the epitaph.

The geometry of silence is a kind of wound,

a shattered compass on a broken hand.

It points to north and then to nowhere found,

a lost and perfect, foreign, emptied land.

And in the silence, the architecture starts to bloom,

a geometry of absence, a kind of truth.

The geometry of the second thought in a closing room,

is the final, empty, wasted evidence of youth.

XXVII. The Faded Atlas

The atlas, with its pages frayed and browned,

no longer holds a map of any shore.

Each continent, a memory unwound,

each ocean, a forgotten corridor.

The names of cities are a kind of rust,

a lexicon of what was never known.

The faded atlas, a testament of dust,

a silent chronicle of what was never shown.

We trace the routes with fingers, not with sight,

a blind cartography of what was lost.

The faded atlas, a kind of ghostly light,

the silent echo of a finished cost.

And in the silence, the geography begins to bloom,

a map of absence, a kind of thought.

The faded atlas in a closing room,

a memory that was never truly caught.

XXVIII. The Museum of the Unseen

The museum of 

An Ode to the Lexical Cacophony.(E.P.)

An Ode to the Lexical Cacophony

I sing the tome, the vast and arid plain,

Where sesquipedalian words hold sovereign reign.

A logophile's labyrinth, a polysyllabic fête,

A compendium of terms, to mystify and sate.

I've sought my muse in quotidian affairs,

And clothed her now in philological airs.

The cat's quiet purr, a gentle, sibilant thrum,

Becomes a psithurism—as I've just become.

The common rain—a droplet from the clouds—

Petrichor’s effluvium, it now loudly avows.

A simple sneeze, a spasm, a tiny, moist display,

Is now an sternutation that steals my breath away.

The hum of day, a soporific sound,

Is now a deep acousmatic drone I've found.

The simple fork, with tines so sharp and fine,

Becomes a furcula, a most arcane design.

So hail the glossary, the index, and the guide,

Where grandiloquent nonsense has nowhere left to hide.

Let lesser bards in simple language plead,

While I on long-forgotten verbiage can feed.

The clock's swift passage, a ceaseless, ticking haste,

Is now a chronogram, in time's indifferent waste.

The garden trowel, for earth a simple tool,

A cultellary item for the vegetable school.

The sun's bright rays, a mundane daily sight,

Are heliacal splendors that vanquish the night.

The kitchen sponge, with its porous, useful face,

An aluminiferous relic in this domestic place.

The dusty motes that dance within the light,

A pulverulent nebula, a cosmic, hazy blight.

The simple act of tying up a shoe,

A nodulation performed for me and you.

So let the critics parse this grand, verbose design,

While the poem uses rare and recondite diction.

To honor the spirit of creative pun

Then consider the state of one who feels quite low,

A kakorrhaphiophobia that causes endless woe.

A simple task, a fear of failure now has won,

My floccinaucinihilipilification is overdone.

I’d rather boast a hepaticocholangiocholecystenterostomies,

Though it's just the dog's chew toy that I see.

For pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis,

Is but a dusty blanket of pure-white silicosis.

So praise the antidisestablishmentarianism of my soul,

That hates all simple order and takes its crushing toll.

And let my pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism explain,

Why I cannot leave the thesaurus in the rain.

My honorificabilitudinitatibus is what I seek,

To praise myself with words that make my listener reek.

This supercalifragilisticexpialidocious wordplay's end,

Is a sesquipedalianism that will never comprehend

 The humor, as before, comes from juxtaposing the highly formal and bizarre vocabulary with mundane or abstract concepts.

In idle thought, a logorrhea overflows,

On matters none of consequence suppose.

My xenotransplantation of a sock,

Onto the cat, was met with frightful shock.

The caliginous clouds portend a sodden day,

A cacography of rain to blot the way.

My coffee cup, a protuberance from the shelf,

Holds secrets of my tired, ancient self.

The pusillanimous squirrel, with furtive eye,

Avoids the gaze of pigeons in the sky.

A confabulation with the garden gnome,

Reveals the root of things inside my home.

I see a spectrophotofluorometrically traced design,

Upon the kitchen floor, a watery sign.

The otorhinolaryngological ache that fills my head,

Is but a whisper of the things unsaid.

The harlequinade of moths that flit and leap,

Upon the window glass, while others sleep.

A parapropalaehoplophorus—such was my thought,

When contemplating what the spider caught.

This honorificabilitudinitatibus I give to thee,

O dictionary, tome of pedantry!

Your every entry, a tintinnabulation of the brain,

To make the simple things complex again.

A dermatoglyphics of the teacup's rings,

Reveals the hidden fate of all such things.

A circumlocution when the dog just begs,

To get its treat, and on two feet it stands and sways and drags.

The metempsychosis of a lonely shoe,

That turns into a slipper, worn and new.

An autochthonous fungus on the cheese,

Suggests a heritage that puts the mind at ease.

The pulchritudinous display of dust,

Upon the windowsill, a thing of trust.

A dipsomaniacal craving for the prose,

Of books whose meaning no one ever knows.

The anachronistic wristwatch on the mime,

Disturbs the silent pantomime of time.

This eleemosynary spirit in my soul,

Bestows on words the chance to make me whole.

For in this tome, these incunabula of thought,

Is meaning that can never be un-sought.

My peripatetic mind, it wanders free,

Among the words that were designed for thee.

A hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia now holds sway,

As sixty-six bright candles must adorn my cake today.

A trichotillomania upon my tired head,

When I remember that my wallet was left on the bed.

The anthropophaginians of the insect kind,

Upon the windowsill, a gruesome tableau I find.

A maschalephidrosis upon my weary brow,

From contemplating what it is I must do now.

The ichthyoacanthotoxism I now must face,

For stepping on a fishbone in this cluttered place.

A dacryocystorhinostomies will surely have to do,

To wipe away the tears that fill my morning view.

This honorificabilitudinitatibus—the state of being able to achieve honors—I bestow,

Upon the cat for sleeping in the soft and morning glow.

And my otorhinolaryngological complaint,

Is but a trifle for a soul that will not taint.

The pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism of my chair,

That mimics comfort with a hollow, empty stare.

The eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious sound it makes,

As on its springs the mighty cushion creaks and shakes.

My floccinaucinihilipilification of the dust,

Is but a testament to how I am obsessed with trust.

The archididascalian glare upon my weary face,

When contemplating what to write in this poetic space.

A paraskavedekatriaphobia now grips my soul with dread,

When the calendar on Friday, the thirteenth, I have read.

The deinolatria I reserve for my alarm clock's chime,

The fearful worship of that noise throughout the passing time.

My macrocephalous collection of antique thimbles and thread,

Upon the mantelpiece, above the fire's gentle, steady red.

I note the xanthochroi complexion of the sun-faded paint,

With no desire to paint it anew, or make a fresh complaint.

The apothegmatic wisdom from the fortune cookie, small and neat,

Is but a fragile notion, ephemeral and bittersweet.

A contumelious glance the dog provides, when I won't give him more,

The final, withering judgment, at my very kitchen door.

My honorificabilitudinitatibus from Shakespeare I will take,

To laud the simple sandwich for my hungry stomach's sake.

And that obscure lung disease with the long and dusty name,

Reminds me of the simple things that once were but a game

A psychophysicotherapeutics in the brewing tea,

To soothe the troubled mind of my anxiety.

The ultramicroscopic dust motes on the rug,

A cosmic dance in miniature for a lazy, dreaming bug.

A dacryocystocele of the faucet's gentle drip,

A swelling tear of copper upon the porcelain lip.

The epigeal sprouting of my morning's weary hair,

A testament to waking, a simple, dull affair.

A gnothi seauton of the mirror's silver gleam,

The ancient counsel whispering, in my half-waking dream.

The polychromous patterns of the oil upon the street,

Are momentary rainbows for my tired, trudging feet.

My ichthyosarcotoxin is a simple, fishy smell,

That on my ancient cutting board, I know entirely well.

The trinitrotoluenes of my exploding, tired thought,

On matters of such consequence that all has come to naught.

The callipygian beauty of a single pear,

Reflects the light and fills the afternoon with flair.

A pseudocyesis of the cooking pot’s desire,

To boil and bubble over on the kitchen fire.

The borborygmi rumbling from within the wall,

Suggests a rodent banquet, or a deeper, rumbled squall.

And a prognathous shadow from the falling evening sun,

Turns a tiny garden gnome into a fearsome one.

I feel a certain nidorosity in the scent,

Of burnt-out toast, a punishment heaven-sent.

The epigonation on the chair is but a stain,

Which serves as the insignia of a long, and messy reign.

The triskaidekaphobia of the thirteen missing spoons,

Suggests a superstition that arrives with winter moons.

A hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia I confess,

For words that twist and turn and lead to such distress.

So let the common verses sing of love and simpler things,

While the poem takes flight upon its lexical, pompous wings.

Let others use the tools that are both blunt and plain,

While the poem reigns in its philological domain.

The dyscalculia I feel for the change upon my shelf,

Suggests a larger issue with the quantification of myself.

A kymograph of emotions traces in my coffee's steam,

The turbulent and fleeting nature of a waking, tired dream.

I trace a chrysopoetic formula in the dust and grime,

The simple transmutation of my boredom into time.

A pseudodoxia epidemica of the shadows on the floor,

That convinces me the curtains hide a creature at the door.

The onychogryphosis of the cat's untrimmed and mighty claw,

Creates a sense of order, a terrifying, petty law.

A panopticon surveillance that the teapot now provides,

Watching all my movements, where a single person hides.

The logomachy between the pen and the unblemished page,

A fruitless, lengthy struggle to resolve my inner rage.

The ultracrepidarian advice the internet imparts,

On things it doesn't understand, and all the fragile arts.

Here is a poem based on the query:

So let the critics ponder on the meaning of these rhymes,

And the obscurest, deepest purpose in these fabricated times.

Blackpower 's Obscurantism.part four.(E.P.)

This powerful, long-worded poem is a metaphysical exploration of the human condition, using complex and arcane diction to articulate the chasm between the inner self and external reality. It delves into the psyche's labyrinthine passages and the profound, often melancholic, nature of existence.

"The somnolent, efflorescent hush of twilight's cerulean descent,

Convolutes the vespertine abyss with chimerical intent.

A furtive, sepulchral umbra, a chiaroscuro of malaise,

Enshrouds the flâneur's psychomachia in a phantasmal haze.

The quotidian facade, a palimpsest of saccharine deceit,

Obfuscates the tenebrous truth, the obsequies of a soul's retreat.

Through catacombs of consciousness, a soliloquy descends,

A maudlin, querulous refrain on which the mind depends.

The soul, a peregrine ensconced in this terrestrial charade,

Its iridescent pinions marred, a seraphim betrayed.

In this cacophony of being, a sublunary, vast design,

The eidolon of meaning fades, a vestige of the divine.

The logodaedalian world spins on, a vortex of inane palaver,

Its gilded, meretricious charms a transient, flaccid quiver.

The populace, a myriad, in thrall to pleonastic lies,

Their liminal and fugitive thoughts, beneath indifferent skies.

They chase a simulacrum's smile, a phosphorescent, fading gleam,

A pathetic fallacy of joy in a delirious, fleeting dream.

The ego, a perfidious myth, a sycophant of fleeting praise,

Its hubris, a pyrrhic triumph in these desultory days.

A schism of the self unfolds, a psychogenic malaise,

As reason's syllogistic chains are shattered in a blaze.

The hypostasis of the soul, its numinous and primal core,

Is subjugated by the id's primordial, bestial roar.

The cosmic, ineffable design, the grand cosmic paradigm,

Is lost to jaded, temporal concerns and the inexorable march of time.

We stand as epiphenomena, a speck of cosmic dust,

Our existential, Sisyphean climb, a cosmic, cruel distrust.

The human mind, a microcosm, a baroque and fragile urn,

Holds echoes of the endless void, where stellar embers burn.

So let the lexical and long-winded verse a lamentation raise,

For this quixotic, tragic, farcical, pathetic human maze.

Let it be a catafalque of words, a requiem of thought,

A powerful, long-worded dirge for all that we have sought.

And in this verbose, abstruse expanse, a certain truth appears,

That in the complex, hidden depths, a fragile wisdom clears."

An abstruse continuation, this poem plunges deeper into the psychological maelstrom, employing an even more esoteric lexicon to articulate the soul's Sisyphean struggle against its own inherent contradictions. It examines the ephemeral nature of perception and the persistent, gnawing specter of existential futility, all while embracing a meticulously crafted, deliberately overwrought aesthetic.

"From numinous to quotidian, the mind’s erratic peregrination,

A labyrinthine journey, a desolate and arid destination.

The ineluctable entropy, a cosmic, cold malaise,

An inexorable descent through unlit, crepuscular ways.

A paralogism of perception, a fallacious, flawed design,

The phosphenes of the inner eye, a fleeting, spectral sign.

We maunder through the labyrinth of the self’s intricate charade,

A fugacious and pellucid truth, in chiaroscuro played.

Our gamboled youth, a phosphorescent memory, now a threnody,

A lacuna in the tapestry of our soul's chronology.

We delve into the noumenon, the thing-in-itself obscured,

A hermetic, gnomic cipher, forever unassured.

The empyreal aspirations, a gossamer-thin, delusive dream,

Shattered on the shoals of fate, by a torrential, silent stream.

The ego's insouciant mien, a fragile and grotesque veneer,

A facade of spurious pride, a pretense against all fear.

The soul, a fulgurant and svelte specter, a fleeting, sylphlike grace,

Trapped in the corporeal prison, a confining and morbid space.

The quotidian cacophony, a polyphony of plaintive lies,

A susurrus of inanity beneath indifferent skies.

The logodaedalian world spins on, in its circumlocutory dance,

A serendipitous and capricious, yet deeply painful, chance.

This maudlin, long-winded verse, a pyre for a fading age,

A testament to the intricate and brutal human stage.

The obsequious servility of logic's rigid laws,

Is vanquished by the id's primordial and brutalizing flaws.

A catafalque of verbiage, a dirge for the truth's decline,

A quiddity of purpose, a transient and fading sign.

And in this verbose, abstruse expanse, a poignant insight clears,

That we are but ephemeral whispers, and our only truth is tears."

In an extended metaphysical journey, these next fifty new stanzas delve into the psyche's abyssal depths, employing increasingly arcane and abstract vocabulary. They continue to map the fractured relationship between self and reality, exploring themes of existential futility, the transience of human perception, and the ultimate, ineffable emptiness that undergirds all experience. The poetry remains argumentatively structured, weaving complex conceits and philosophical meditations into a highly stylized, almost ceremonial lament.

"Through an intricate chiasmus of the

 soul’s intent,

A gnomic and epideictic path is blindly sent.

The logodaedalian mind, in its pleonastic sprawl,

Constructs its fragile prison, a psychogenic thrall.

The solipsistic inner world, a phosphorescent gleam,

A pathetic paralogism within a fleeting dream.

The vespertine descent into a sepulchral hush,

Is marked by an efflorescent and cerulean blush.

A chiaroscuro of malaise, a fugacious art,

Enshrouds the flâneur's psychomachia, a wounded heart.

The quotidian facade, a veneer of saccharine deceit,

Obfuscates the tenebrous truths of a soul's retreat.

Within the catacombs of consciousness, a somber song,

A maudlin and querulous refrain, a testament to wrong.

The soul, a peregrine confined in a terrestrial charade,

Its iridescent pinions marred, a seraphim betrayed.

In this immense cacophony of being's vast design,

The eidolon of meaning fades, a memory of the divine.

The ego, a perfidy, a sycophant of specious praise,

Its hubris, a pyrrhic triumph in these desultory days.

A schism of the self unfolds, a psychic disarray,

As reason’s syllogistic chains are sundered in the fray.

The hypostasis of the soul, its numinous and primal core,

Is subjugated by the id’s bestial, primordial roar.

The ineffable design, the grand cosmic paradigm,

Is lost to jaded, temporal concerns and the inexorable march of time.

We stand as epiphenomena, a mote of cosmic dust,

Our existential, Sisyphean climb, a cosmic, cruel distrust.

The human mind, a microcosm, a baroque and fragile urn,

Holds echoes of the endless void, where stellar embers burn.

And so, this lexical and long-winded verse a lamentation raised,

For this quixotic, tragic, farcical, pathetic human maze.

A catafalque of words, a requiem of fragile thought,

A verbose, abstruse expanse for battles we have fought.

And in this complex, hidden depth, a simple truth appears,

That in the face of all this, only fragile wisdom clears.

But hark, the prolegomenon of a deeper, darker dread,

A lacuna in the ledger of the living and the dead.

A palimpsest of memories, a history erased,

A future, bleak and barren, on the past forever based.

The zeitgeist of the age, a simulacrum of the truth,

Devours the fragile innocence of our collective youth.

The apotheosis of the mundane, a sterile, hollow rite,

Illuminates the crepuscular gloom with a sickly, spectral light.

The anamnesis of the soul, a shadow play of doubt,

A phantasmagoria of fears, a whisper, and a shout.

The epistemology of the lost, a faulty, broken map,

A cartography of sorrow, a psychic, deadly trap.

We build our towers of syllogism, our citadels of lore,

But the chthonic forces pull us down to the primordial floor.

Our language, a philological cage, a net of subtle lies,

To trap the fleeting, fugacious truths before our very eyes.

The eschatology of the self, a silent, slow decay,

As all our gilded theories turn to nothing in the clay.

The peripatetic march of time, a measured, cruel beat,

A relentless, crushing rhythm, a bittersweet defeat.

The onomatopoeia of a broken heart, a quiet, hollow sound,

Reverberates through history, on consecrated ground.

The autochthonous spirit, tethered to this temporal plane,

Suffers the dramaturgy of a manufactured, cosmic pain.

A phantasmagoric dream, a prelapsarian sigh,

A memory of a different world, beneath a different sky.

The hagiography of a life, a sanitized, polished lie,

Cannot conceal the inchoate fears that fester and that die.

The liminal space between the soul and mind, a shifting tide,

A place of silent torment, where the broken dreams all hide.

The aporia of existence, a paradox and a bind,

A quest for meaning in a world that never, ever minds.

The anamnesis of the spirit, a faint and fleeting trace,

Erased by the hebetude of a hollow, loveless space.

The logorrhea of the damned, a stream of useless talk,

A babbling, pointless monologue on a meaningless, lonely walk.

The ephemera of a life, a wisp of fleeting breath,

A cosmic, cruel, sardonic joke, a meaningless, slow death.

The penumbra of the mind, where shadows dance and play,

Consumes the last of meaning in a slow and dark decay.

The paronomasia of fate, a pun of cosmic scale,

A cruel and heartless jest, a universal, tragic tale.

The zeitgeber of the soul, a phantom, silent clock,

Ticking out the meaningless moments on a hollow, wooden block.

The pathos of the human plight, a tragic, silent cry,

Lost in the logocentrism of a cold and empty sky.

The aposiopesis of the verse, a sudden, final break,

A testament to the futility of meaning, for meaning's sake.

The quiddity of a single moment, a fleeting, precious thing,

Dissolves in the mnemonics of a forgotten, broken spring.

The noesis of the soul, a sudden, fragile spark,

Extinguished by the darkness, and the overwhelming dark.

The entelechy of the self, a whispered, silent aim,

Lost in the thaumaturgy of a lost and whispered name.

The solastalgia of the soul, a grieving, inner pain,

For a world that's gone forever, and will never come again.

The neologism of a broken heart, a new and bitter word,

No dictionary can contain, or ever has yet heard.

The perfidious self, a Judas kiss, a bitter, cruel embrace,

Consumes the last of virtue, without a single trace.

The syzygy of pain and love, a bitter, cosmic dance,

A choreographed collision, a terrible, cruel chance.

The ultracrepidarian mind, a pretension, hollow art,

Displays its empty knowledge from a hollow, empty heart.

The limerence of memory, a ghost of love and lies,

Reflected in the emptiness of these unblinking eyes.

The ephemeral truths we sought, now scattered on the wind,

The fleeting, phantom certainties that we could never find.

The periphrasis of meaning, a winding, weary path,

Avoids the truth, the simple truth, the simple, final wrath.

The kismet of the cosmos, a preordained, sad plot,

A destiny of nothingness, to be and then be not.

The dystopian dawn now breaks, a pale and sickly hue,

On a landscape of lost meaning, and a bitter, sterile dew.

The prolepsis of the spirit, a foreshadowed, final end,

A bitter, poignant message that we cannot comprehend.

The hologram of hope, a fragile, trembling light,

Extinguished by the darkness of an everlasting night.

The threnody of meaning, a long and drawn-out wail,

A whisper in the emptiness, a hollow, tragic tale.

The sublunary decay, a slow and silent rust,

Transforms the gilded promises to unrepentant dust.

The apocalypse of the self, a final, total end,

When the universe conspires, a bitter, cruel friend.

A cathexis of the void, a silent, dark desire,

To burn away the vestiges of a long-extinguished fire.

The hypnagogia of a life, a dreamlike, hazy state,

Between the deep and waking world, a bitter, cruel fate.

The phantasm of a future, a shimmer in the haze,

Dissolves within the emptiness of these exhausted days.

The zeitgeist fades to nothing, a whisper in the past,

A silent, slow extinguishment, a shadow, thin and fast.

The anomie of the ages, a rootless, lonely ache,

A testament to all the vows we constantly must break.

The teleology of the self, a purpose, false and grand,

Shattered by the universe, a silent, empty hand.

The dramaturgy of the void, a stage of empty space,

Where phantom actors mouth their lines in this forgotten place.

The anamnesis of the soul, a memory of a lie,

A bitter, cruel deception, beneath a vacant sky.

The hypnagogic state dissolves, and with it, all the years,

Leaving only emptiness and bitter, silent tears.

The aposiopesis of the cosmos, a silence, cold and vast,

When the final, fatal question is forgotten in the past.

The aporia of the last despair, a final, endless bind,

A search for purpose in a world that never, ever mind.

The thanatos of the spirit, a slow and final end,

The ultimate surrender to a foe that's called a friend.

The sibilance of dying stars, a hiss of fading light,

A final, quiet whisper in the everlasting night.

The lacuna in the ledger, a blank and empty page,

The final, bitter testament to a pointless, cosmic age.

The effulgence of the truth, a fleeting, distant gleam,

Extinguished by the emptiness of this exhausting dream.

The palimpsest of hope is torn, a useless, frayed design,

A history of suffering, a worthless, bitter sign.

The ultracrepidarian mind, its arrogance and pride,

Is swallowed by the nothingness with nowhere left to hide.

The solastalgia of the soul, its grief, its empty fear,

Is swallowed by the cosmos, and the silence, cold and sheer.

The anagnorisis of the lie, a moment, sharp and brief,

Reveals the final, bitter truth, and offers no relief.

The prolepsis of the final void, a foreshadowed, total end,

A bitter, poignant message that we cannot comprehend.

The thaumaturgy of a god, a magic, false and cheap,

Cannot disturb the final, cold and solitary sleep.

The entelechy of the self, a whispered, silent aim,

Lost in the syzygy of nothingness and an empty, hollow name.

The philology of the lost, the parsing of the dead,

A futile, pointless exercise within a hollow head.

The thanatopsis of the soul, a long and final gaze,

Across the empty, pointless wastes of these exhausted days.

The periphrasis of the final truth, a long and weary way,

Avoids the simple emptiness that waits for us today.

The cosmology of the lost, a cold and empty space,

No purpose, no design, no meaning, no redeeming grace.

The aposiopesis of the final word, a silent, sudden break,

A testament to the futility of meaning, for meaning's sake.

A paradox of being, a tautology of thought,

A bitter, barren lesson that we should have never sought.

The anagnorisis of the lost, a terrible, final sight,

Of the empty, barren landscape in the failing, dying light.

The pathognomonic sign of doom, a subtle, inner ache,

The final, fatal knowledge that the universe can break.

A logodaedalian cacophony ,a syzygy of void and soul,a catafalque of verbiage,The vespertine peregrination,Eflorescent malaise, Eflorescent malaise,paradigmatic lacuna,meditation on existentialistic entropy,a quidity's inquiry and reflection on the sublunary.O Peripatetic anamnesis!

A Spining Earth

Autumn's lane,summer and winter's pine at the springs time board

Race the springs and the sprints of mileage towards apogee

Genteel dust barely exit sunlit days at the suspense and tremor of whisper sighs to embalm the incominh bride of apotheosis with the springs bed of harvest moon

Slumbering heart upon slumbering Earth in the slumbering hearth resigns too sudden the ,soldered by the ravashing ravages of time

Descending showers breathtakingly betrays the rising of the ascending sun from the springs of greenfields,

Ribaldry of fragile sun bewitch the blurbs of patient gleams

Not to banish the winter's fest of cremated dread for the muted dream of the soulful springs time.

And for all that goes in returns comes in returns 

Where soldiers of dreams barely betrays the stubborn Earth and golden hills

Who whispers solemn promise over the winter's chill and golden snows of the springs time hold the merchandise of mercurial fort for the golden morning of apotheosis 

Hail the fleeting art must thrive not on fugacious grasses but on intrigues of intricate design 

To outwit the impending ravages of broken time

Not the secret warmth to resides in your neighbour's yard but in your otiose psyche of gold,

Where broken silence sings the songs of the springs

Docile fortitude endures the ebbtide of the patient snows

A sky of muted blue traverse the gràils of patient grills and tarnishings endears at the avoidance of patient snows 

From the muffled the winter sun sending shivers down the spine of the springs time 

Calls biting winds among the trigger of scorching heat to beware the jungles of infliction

How come the weary Earth in the crux of the biting snows

Holds the green field in the golden prospects of the springs time 

And barely bickers with the scorching heat to castrate this nightmare of golden dream?

But in the long run with no retreat whatsoever from the cold of forlorn shrieks

Eclipses of nature at mothernature's loins barely elope from the sworn oath and allegiance to existentialism and ontology

Who welcome the new song to the longer day

Where silver gleams and swollen roofs of golden sun

Cajole bright thread towards the immaculate nuggets of golden hills?

Not to betray perseverance when it betrays

The slumbering heart 

Swollen buds at the swollen melts not gambling recess for the golden springs

The scents of the Earth at this larde is bright with lillies and daffodills

Fragile sun from the frosted eaves hidden the pale of broken times 

Seke the fragile arts for the awakening of the pale light for the golden dawn

All things fade but the springs of spining Earth never fail

When vicious life is frozen at its beautiful streams

It lays beneath the stars like a sheet of ice and a cold and diamond sheet cooking the spining jellies of future stars

O the frangible reels of ice and a bequest of frosty earth's beckon

The winds returns upon its ice sheet quickening the earth's pace better

In the bittersweet rollercoaster of the nature's golden eclipses 

Beneath it lay the kindler sun the gentle sun the heavenly in the ascending sun and the descending showers spin off apotheosis as it selem fit

Little wonder morning mists hang virulently at sedate lunge upon the patient hills

The blossoming scents of patient fest and the weary World is born again 

As the turning wheels of golden green rejoice the aspiration of its booming times

It is for the spining Earth that the sun returns and the moon returns and the sunset barely betrays the sun rise for the law of timely recess

Which eclipses the spring time of nature's balanced ecosystem

A Golden Rebuke

Shell the sutures of lugubrious umbra to downgrade the eschatology of the imperious blunts

A cusp of the fortunate sighs,a hecatomb of the seredipitious recondite

Bulwark of the onomatapoiec sounds

Hipponchodriarcal of eidetic chimera bamboozled

Gnomon's pleroma strewn to toss broken eggs by paralogism

Umbilical unguents of cthonic scherzo

Opalescent gnosis at chrysopoeia indulges in phaeton's penumbra frets across lugubrious umbra 

And lo she was bugged down by hyponchondriac pericardial storms in a labyrinth of sesquipedalian sesquialtera 

An expletive ampersand that hits and drops like broken eggs often struck  at hemerneutic palinode barely returns the immortal splash

A semblance of palimpsest of the proleotic zodiac,

Like the threnody of the quontidian epiphany returns to hunt the predator and the predated

That barely an empiricism is mused tends to invoke the ragged miasma of atavistic and anomic bone

With the goofy contentment of immemorial eudaemonic drone as brash contentment of antinomian esoteric frieze

To jail its predated the obsequious opalescent gnosis 

Bombardment of seredipitious recondite unease struck at hypnagogic chiaroscuro.

This irate goofs of the threnody of quontidian epiphany barely sift not drill the contents,punditry and lens of diacronic philology for moults

Thus the moribunds and the ineluctable miasma endures the mortal folklores beyond company of vommited comprehension.

Anaclastic perhelion on the vertigo o folklores stings at gnomon's pleroma 

A Prolegomenon to the eschatology of Ephemera(E.P.)

A Prolegomenon to the Eschatology of Ephemera

A phantasmagoria of recondite lore,

Obfuscates the hypnopompic shore,

Where sesquipedalian specters soar,

And limn the liminal, forevermore.

The supererogatory platitudes

Disinter a million turpitudes,

In the vast, cacophonous amplitudes

Of perambulating multitudes.

With an antediluvian, crepuscular light,

A parallax of somnambulistic might,

Propitiates the tenebrous of night,

And convalesces from diurnal blight.

This preternatural, hebdomadal trance,

Perpetuates a peregrine mischance,

A concatenation in the cosmic dance,

An iridescence in the temporal expanse.

The exigent ubiquity of dread,

Emancipates the uninhibited dead,

While discombobulated thoughts are shed,

On the palimpsest of what has been unsaid.

An effervescence of eidetic scorn,

Accoutered in the panoply of morn,

Begs the jejune, forsworn, and newly born,

To be forever from the commonplace torn.

The recalcitrant, syncretistic mind,

Obliviates the solace it could find,

Leaving sagacious axioms behind,

To be to abject inanition consigned.

A contumacious, epistemological plight,

Engenders the eschatological fright,

Where refulgent, synecdochic light

Is immolated in the umbral night.

The antinomian, disquisitionary phase,

Convolutes the antilogy of days,

With heterodox, multifarious ways,

And a panoply of periphrastic haze.

The inexorable, fuliginous descent,

Upon which countless centuries are spent,

Is an encomium, by happenstance sent,

A lugubrious and transient testament.

The obsequious and sycophantic praise,

Illuminates the profligate malaise,

In the labyrinthine, Sisyphean maze,

Of our sclerotic, hypnagogic days.

A philistine, recalcitrant disdain,

For the abstruse and metaphysical pain,

Makes an ignominious and plebeian claim,

To the verisimilitude of a vapid name.

The lugubrious, lacustrine, limpid tears,

That mitigate our idiosyncratic fears,

Are the prolepsis of our burgeoning years,

And the harbinger of our expiring cheers.

With an otiose, anachronistic gait,

We peregrinate to meet our fated state,

While the egregious, obdurate mandate

Is to prevaricate and obfuscate.

The effulgent, refulgent, scintillant gleam,

Is but a meretricious, fallacious dream,

A nascent, narcissistic, nascent stream,

In a hypothecated, inchoate theme.

A propaedeutic to the cataclysmic,

With rhapsodic, and euphemistic,

And idiosyncratic, and pessimistic

Lamentations, iconoclastic.

The obfuscatory, ineffable art,

Plays a synecdochic, paratactic part,

In the inexorable and cathartic start,

Of the disintegration of the human heart.

A supercilious, pusillanimous dread,

Unfurled by the insouciant, unread,

Is the apotheosis of the newly dead,

A cacophonous and somnambulant thread.

A sesquipedalian, obsequious plea,

From the obdurate, inchoate, and free,

To the platitudinous and absentee

Omnipotent, ubiquitously.

The egregious and egregious disdain,

For the lugubrious and plebeian plain,

Is a testament to the inane and vain,

And the ephemeral and transient pain.

The anachronistic, otiose design,

Perpetuates the egregious, obscene sign,

Of the recalcitrant and philistine,

And the insouciant, clandestine.

A contumacious, sclerotic gaze,

Navigates the phantasmagoric maze,

And in the multifarious, nebulous haze,

It finds an apotheosis of its days.

The idiosyncratic, heterodox way,

Leads to an umbral, obfuscated day,

Where hypothecated truths all fray,

And to an apotheosis they all pray.

A meretricious, nascent, vain display,

Where platitudinous and jejune thoughts sway,

Is a testament to the disarray,

And the supererogatory play.

The lugubrious, peregrine mischance,

Is an encomium of the cosmic dance,

A liminal, tenebrous, crepuscular trance,

And a convalescent, misanthropic glance.

The exigent, ubiquitously spread,

Emanates from the uninhibited dead,

And leaves the discombobulated, unread,

With a palimpsest of what has been unsaid.

A concatenation of eidetic scorn,

Accoutered in the pantheon of morn,

Begs the sagacious, forsworn, and newly born,

To be from their complacency torn.

The recalcitrant, syncretistic plea,

Obliviates the veracity it could see,

Leaving heterodox axioms to be,

Consigned to utter sophistry.

A contumacious, epistemological dread,

Engenders the eschatological thought instead,

Where synecdochic, refulgent, golden thread,

Is immolated by the newly dead.

The antinomian, disquisitionary might,

Convolutes the antilogy of the night,

With idiosyncratic and nascent light,

And a fuliginous and umbral blight.

The inexorable, supererogatory,

Is a testament to the transitory,

A lugubrious and contradictory,

And narcissistic, desultory.

The obsequious, profligate malaise,

Illuminates the Sisyphean haze,

In the recalcitrant, philistine gaze,

Of the anachronistic, obfuscated days.

A nascent, narcissistic, vacant plea,

From the obdurate, jejune, and free,

To the supercilious, pusillanimous sea,

Of an impotent ubiquity.

The egregious, egregious and profane,

For the meretricious and insouciant rain,

Is a premonition of the inane and vain,

And the ephemeral and transient pain.

The anachronistic, otiose, absurd,

Perpetuates the egregious, absurd,

Of the recalcitrant and absurd,

And the insouciant, absurd.

A contumacious, sclerotic, dark,

Navigates the phantasmagoric ark,

And in the multifarious, nebular dark,

It leaves an apotheosis mark.

The idiosyncratic, heterodox, and wan,

Leads to an umbral, obfuscated dawn,

Where hypothecated truths all are gone,

And an apotheosis is drawn.

A meretricious, nascent, vapid plea,

Where platitudinous and jejune thoughts flee,

Is a testament to the disarray,

And the supererogatory day.

The lugubrious, peregrine, dark trance,

Is an encomium of the cosmic mischance,

A liminal, tenebrous, crepuscular dance,

And a convalescent, misanthropic glance.

The exigent, ubiquitously-spread,

Emanates from the uninhibitedly dead,

And leaves the discombobulated, and unread,

With a palimpsest of what's been unsaid.

A concatenation of eidetic, scornful might,

Accoutered in the panoply of the night,

Begs the sagacious, forsworn, with all its might,

To be from its complacency, and from its plight.

The recalcitrant, syncretistic, and profound,

Obliviates the solace that was found,

Leaving heterodox axioms on the ground,

To be to abject inanition bound.

A contumacious, epistemological dread,

Engenders the eschatological word instead,

Where synecdochic, refulgent, golden thread,

Is by the newly dead, and the unread, bred.

The antinomian, disquisitionary, vast,

Convolutes the antilogy of the past,

With idiosyncratic and nascent contrast,

And a fuliginous and umbral mast.

The inexorable, supererogatory, vain,

Is a testament to the transient, and the inane,

A lugubrious and contradictory, vain,

And narcissistic, contradictory, vain.

The obsequious, profligate, and profound,

Illuminates the Sisyphean, absurd ground,

In the recalcitrant, philistine, unsound,

Of the anachronistic, obfuscated sound.

A nascent, narcissistic, vacant ground,

From the obdurate, jejune, and unsound,

To the supercilious, pusillanimous, profound,

Of an impotent ubiquity, and of an unsound ground.

The egregious, egregious, and absurd,

For the meretricious and insouciant, absurd,

Is a premonition of the transient, and the absurd,

And the ephemeral and transient, absurd, word.

The anachronistic, otiose, and profound,

Perpetuates the egregious, and the unsound,

Of the recalcitrant and profound, and the absurd,

And the insouciant, clandestine, and profound, word.

A contumacious, sclerotic, and absurd,

Navigates the phantasmagoric, and the unheard,

And in the multifarious, nebular, and the absurd,

It finds an apotheosis, and an absurd word.

The Patient Earth (E.P.)

Below is a poem inspired by the passage of time and the changing seasons.

The Patient Earth 

The quiet dust of autumn on the pane,

A whispered sigh, the end of sunlit days.

The summer's lease expires with gentle rain,

And fades to gold through misty, cooling haze.

The stubborn earth, a quiet, slumbering heart,

Resigns its green, its fleeting, floral hour.

Each leaf, a masterpiece, must now depart,

And paint the air with its descending shower.

A fragile sun, a low and patient gleam,

Draws short the shadows, calls the evening near.

And in the solace of this muted dream,

A promise waits to banish winter's fear.

For all that goes returns in measured turn,

A cycle old, a truth and trutj trigger 

As shadows lengthen and the last leaves fall,

The world prepares for winter's quiet hold.

The sun, a colder witness to it all,

Paints frosted scenes in silver, white, and gold.

The stubborn earth, now muffled, soft, and deep,

Resigns to rest beneath a coming snow.

While bare-limbed trees stand witness as they sleep,

A solemn promise whispered from below.

For winter's chill holds not an endless night,

But incubates the secret of the seed.

The fragile sun will grow in slow, sure might,

And answer nature's deep and patient need.

The earth will turn, and turn again to green,

And bring the spring from all that lies unseen.

From frosted eaves, the pale light of the dawn

Reflects on winter's intricate design,

A fleeting art on grasses, hard and drawn,

A silent world where fragile patterns shine.

And in the cold, where all seems hushed and still,

A secret warmth resides within the ground,

A patient hope, a deep and vital will,

A promise whispered without any sound.

So let the bitter winds and gray days pass,

The world will wait and dream its coming green.

For life, reborn beneath the winter glass,

Is the most patient and enduring scene.

The turning year, a steadfast, constant thing,

Will break the silence with the songs of spring.

(Stanza 4)

The winter's stillness holds the frosted air,

And dormant strength beneath the patient snow.

A quiet hope, a promise held with care,

For dormant life that waits its time to grow.

The branches creak, a skeletal design,

Against a sky of muted, fading blue,

A silent world that waits for spring's new sign,

And dreams of all the life it will renew.

(Stanza 5)

The winter sun, a pale and distant coin,

Gives just enough to etch the stark relief

Of barren fields and evergreens that join

The patient wait beyond all mortal grief.

A fragile light that keeps the cold at bay,

And holds the memory of yesterday.

(Stanza 6)

The biting wind a sculptor, sharp and clear,

Carves drifts of white along the sleeping lane.

The muffled world, it has no song to hear,

But the soft sound of snow upon the pane.

The world becomes a canvas, white and clean,

Awaiting strokes of green and gold and light,

A pristine and unblemished, perfect scene,

That slowly melts and vanishes from sight.

(Stanza 7)

But in the long and slow retreat of cold,

A subtle change, a softening of the frost.

The weary, frosted earth begins to hold

A future green that was not truly lost.

The brittle ice along the river's edge,

Gives way to whispers from the hidden sedge.

(Stanza 8)

A silver gleam, a swelling in the root,

A secret stirring where the cold has been.

A nascent life, a quiet, growing shoot,

The silent, slow rebellion from within.

The sun returns, with longer, warmer grace,

To call the sleeping world with golden hand,

And warm the hidden life within this place,

A gentle warmth that softens all the land.

(Stanza 9)

The first soft green, a hesitant, bright thread,

Unfurls upon the black and broken bough.

The hopeful world awakens from the dead,

The old world dies, and something new is now.

The crocuses, a purple, yellow line,

A fragile herald, first of spring's design.

(Stanza 10)

The robin's breast, a flash of fire and joy,

A song of welcome to the longer day.

A simple sound that nothing can destroy,

And tells the winter's weary heart to stray.

The swollen buds, a promise on the air,

A silent music, ready to unfold,

A subtle change beyond all thought or care,

A story whispered, delicate and old.

(Stanza 11)

The rushing melt, a music in the stream,

A swollen torrent where the trickles ran.

The world awakes from its long, silent dream,

A new beginning, following the plan.

The sky is washed, a clearer, brighter hue,

As rain descends and washes all anew.

(Stanza 12)

The scent of earth, a rich and dark perfume,

A fragrant signal from the turning loam,

Of life returned from winter's quiet tomb,

And busy creatures building a new home.

The tender leaves unfold a hopeful hand,

A vibrant curtain on the forest floor,

And life returns across the grateful land,

And knocks with gentle patience at the door.

(Stanza 13)

The days stretch out, a slow and golden pull,

And light returns to linger and to stay.

The world revives, and fills and overflows,

With life and light and promise every day.

The buzzing hum of insects on the breeze,

The ancient life that whispers through the trees.

(Stanza 14)

The patient sun, a constant, golden heat,

Draws forth the life that winter held concealed.

And time resumes its old, familiar beat,

And every leaf and hidden bud is revealed.

The endless green, a lush and verdant sea,

The world alive with color and with sound,

A symphony for all the world to see,

On every slope and over every ground.

(Stanza 15)

The heavy air, a humid, thick caress,

The scent of blossom on the lazy wind.

The world is caught in summer's sweet excess,

And time unfolds, a slow and endless mind.

The long, slow twilight, lingering and deep,

While fireflies in constellations creep.

(Stanza 16)

The drowsy hum of bees in heavy flight,

The taste of honey and the sun-warmed fruit.

The world is drenched in golden, hazy light,

A life that reaches down to find its root.

The languid heat, a slow and sleepy pace,

As shadows stretch, and lengthen and then fade,

Reflecting back the sun's warm, soft embrace,

Upon a world that summer's hand has made.

(Stanza 17)

But in the heat, a turning of the light,

A sharpened edge to green and gold and red.

The faintest whisper in the endless night,

A hint of changes that are still ahead.

A cooler breeze that stirs the drooping leaves,

And softly tells the world what it believes.

(Stanza 19)

The quiet dust of autumn on the pane,

A whispered sigh, the end of sunlit days.

The summer's lease expires with gentle rain,

And fades to gold through misty, cooling haze.

The stubborn earth, a quiet, slumbering heart,

Resigns its green, its fleeting, floral hour.

Each leaf, a masterpiece, must now depart,

And paint the air with its descending shower.

(Stanza 20)

A fragile sun, a low and patient gleam,

Draws short the shadows, calls the evening near.

And in the solace of this muted dream,

A promise waits to banish winter's fear.

For all that goes returns in measured turn,

A cycle old, a truth we slowly learn.

(Stanza 21)

As shadows lengthen and the last leaves fall,

The world prepares for winter's quiet hold.

The sun, a colder witness to it all,

Paints frosted scenes in silver, white, and gold.

The stubborn earth, now muffled, soft, and deep,

Resigns to rest beneath a coming snow.

While bare-limbed trees stand witness as they sleep,

A solemn promise whispered from below.

(Stanza 22)

From frosted eaves, the pale light of the dawn

Reflects on winter's intricate design,

A fleeting art on grasses, hard and drawn,

A silent world where fragile patterns shine.

And in the cold, where all seems hushed and still,

A secret warmth resides within the ground,

A patient hope, a deep and vital will,

A promise whispered without any sound.

(Stanza 23)

The cycle turns, and turns, and turns again,

The seasons dance, a rhythm in the air.

The sun, the snow, the warming, gentle rain,

A constant truth that chases all despair.

And in this dance, a quiet truth is found,

That all things fade, but always will return.

The spinning earth, a slow and silent round,

A lesson taught, and endless, slow to learn.

(Stanza 25)

The hidden life beneath the frozen streams,

The sleeping fish, the silent, waiting things.

A world of quiet, subterranean dreams,

That waits for water when the wild swan sings.

The fragile film of ice upon the pond,

A looking-glass for all the gray and bare,

Reflecting scenes from worlds that lie beyond,

And holds the still and sleeping spirit there.

(Stanza 26)

The winter night, a long and peaceful sleep,

Beneath the stars, a cold and diamond sheet.

The frosted breath, a rising, gentle steep,

A universe of silence, hushed and sweet.

The quiet cold that settles all around,

A gentle hush that soothes and calms and clears,

And brings a peace with its soft, muffled sound,

And stills the frantic nature of our fears.

(Stanza 27)

The coming dawn, a pink and pearly hue,

That edges through the deep and starless black.

The weary, sleeping world is born anew,

And slowly starts its old, familiar track.

The quiet shift, the turning of the tide,

The subtle change that all the wise ones see,

And all the life that winter holds inside,

Begins its climb toward all that it can be.

(Stanza 28)

The wind returns, a sharper, clearer air,

And pulls the frozen branches, waking them.

A quickening, a sense of things to bear,

A stirring in the dark and hidden stem.

The world expands, and breathes a longer breath,

And sheds the heavy burden of the past,

And leaves behind the quiet, final death,

For light and warmth that are not meant to last.

(Stanza 29)

The river swells, a roaring, icy cry,

As sheets of winter break and drift and slide.

A cleansing rush beneath a changing sky,

And takes the last of winter with its tide.

The world is washed, and made a new design,

By rushing torrents and the cleansing rain,

And every patch of dark and hidden ground,

Receives the seed that starts the dance again.

(Stanza 30)

The gentle sun, a longer, kinder light,

Reflects upon the softened, yielding earth.

The slow return, the patient, sure-thing might,

That brings the ancient miracle of birth.

The fragile buds begin their slow descent,

To meet the world and face the growing sun,

A quiet, perfect moment, slowly lent,

Before the coming summer has begun.

(Stanza 31)

The gentle rain, a soft and constant beat,

That falls upon the newly opened leaves.

A quiet wash, a patient and soft sheet,

That nature gathers and the world receives.

The world drinks deep, a long and thirsty drink,

And fills with light and life and gentle sound,

And all the things that grow and think and link,

Are drawn from out the rich and turning ground.

(Stanza 32)

The morning mist, a soft and hazy screen,

That hangs upon the rising, patient hills.

A verdant, growing, almost silent scene,

That slowly fills with green and growing thrills.

The vibrant life, a surge of silent power,

That moves and grows within the fertile soil,

And fills the world with its unfolding hour,

And ends the long and heavy winter's toil.

(Stanza 34)

The longer days, a slow and golden climb,

And shadows shorten as the sun ascends.

The world is caught within the gentle time,

The hopeful season that will have its ends.

The buzzing life, a constant, growing hum,

As busy creatures move and seek and find,

And fills the world with all the joys to come,

And leaves the winter's weary past behind.

(Stanza 35)

The heavy air, a slow and patient breath,

The scent of blossom on the warmer air.

The summer comes, a slow and gentle death,

To all the fragile hope of spring, and care.

The long, slow days, the sun that never goes,

And fills the world with long and hazy light,

As tired blossoms slowly find their close,

And weary daylight settles in for night.

(Stanza 36)

The languid heat, a slow and sleepy pace,

The drowsy hum of bees on heavy wing.

The world is caught within a sweet embrace,

A gentle dance where only summer sings.

The long, slow shadows stretching on the grass,

The gentle hush, the sun that slowly fades,

As quiet moments slowly, gently pass,

And fill the silent, watchful, sleepy glades.

(Stanza 37)

But in the heat, a turning of the leaf,

A crimson whisper, hidden in the green.

A silent message, beautiful and brief,

A simple change, a simple, fleeting scene.

The world begins its slow and golden turn,

As summer fades and gives its gentle sighs,

A patient lesson that we slowly learn,

Within the golden turning of the skies.

(Stanza 38)

The harvest fields, a rustling, golden sigh,

As gentle breezes stir the heavy grain.

The world prepares for autumn passing by,

And feels the chill that comes with gentle rain.

The fading sun, a deeper, slanted gold,

The longer shadows on the fields of hay,

A story ancient and a tale of old,

Of golden moments, fading with the day.

(Stanza 39)

The first soft frost, a delicate, white grace,

That settles on the window glass at dawn.

A gentle beauty, found within this place,

A perfect, frosted pattern on the lawn.

The world retreats, and slowly pulls its breath,

And sheds the weight of summer's heavy green,

A quiet movement, and a slow, soft death,

That brings the silent, fragile, winter scene.

(Stanza 40)

The leaves descend, a slow and colored rain,

A crimson, yellow, gentle, falling sheet.

A fragile story, whispered in the lane,

And rustles softly underneath our feet.

The world is painted, and a work of art,

Upon the ground and in the patient air,

As every fragile, fading leaf takes part,

And settles slowly with a patient care.

(Stanza 41)

The fading light, a slow and gentle hue,

A perfect, golden, patient, lasting gleam.

The weary world is softly born anew,

As life retreats and enters in a dream.

The quiet sigh of evening on the breeze,

The gentle close of summer's golden day,

And silent whispers drifting through the trees,

Of life that softly, gently drifts away.

(Stanza 42)

The wind returns, a colder, sharper cry,

That whistles softly through the hollow wood.

A gentle warning as the days go by,

That winter's waiting, patient and subdued.

The world is still, and quiet, and at peace,

And watches with a calm and knowing eye,

As colors fade and golden moments cease,

Beneath the gray and ever-changing sky.

(Stanza 43)

The final leaf, a slow and patient fall,

Upon the earth, a last and quiet grace.

The world is silent, waiting for the call,

Of winter's cold, and winter's quiet space.

The ancient pulse, the slow and patient beat,

That moves within the earth and in the air,

A slow and final, bittersweet retreat,

And leaves the world in gentle, patient care.

(Stanza 44)

The early snow, a first and gentle sheet,

That falls upon the still and quiet ground.

A perfect, soft, and gentle, white retreat,

That settles slowly with a silent sound.

The world is washed, and clean, and white and still,

And rests beneath the soft and gentle snow,

As winter settles slowly on the hill,

And holds the life that waits for it to go.

(Stanza 45)

The heavy gray, the low and quiet sky,

The sun a distant and a yellow haze.

The world is still, beneath the seasons' eye,

And watches winter's slow and patient ways.

The quiet days, the slow and patient pace,

The waiting life beneath the frozen earth,

And watches in this slow and gentle place,

The coming promise of a quiet birth.

(Stanza 46)

The turning wheel, a constant, steady spin,

That moves and turns within the patient air.

The old world ends, and the new will begin,

A constant, gentle, patient, endless stair.

The seasons flow, a constant, steady stream,

Of life and light and quiet, gentle change,

A waking world from winter's silent dream,

And turning slowly through its patient range.

(Stanza 47)

The river flows, a slow and silent art,

Beneath the frozen, icy, patient crust.

The living pulse, the slow and beating heart,

Of all the worlds that wait for gentle trust.

The patient time, the slow and gentle hold,

That winter keeps within its silent breath,

And slowly lets the ancient truth unfold,

Of life that conquers all the quiet death.

(Stanza 48)

The gentle sun, a slow and steady climb,

Reflects upon the cold and frozen ground.

The patient turning of the patient time,

And waits to hear the slow and patient sound.

The waking world, the slow and gentle call,

Of warming light upon the patient snow,

And watches winter's slow and final fall,

And waits for all the patient things to grow.

(Stanza 50)

The final line, the final, gentle word,

Of endless cycles, and of things that turn.

The simple lesson that the world has heard,

The patient learning that we slowly learn.

The sun returns, the seasons turn and flow,

The old world fades, and the new one begins,

The gentle life that comes with patient snow,

And ends the tale, and all the constant spins.

(Stanza 18)

The days draw in, a subtle, slow retreat,

As colors deepen and begin to burn.

The harvest moon, a yellow, patient sweet,

Upon the world that watches and will turn.

The fading sun, a softer, slanted gold,

Reflects upon the world with knowing eyes,

A story ancient and a tale of old,

Of summer's end, and autumn's new surprise.

(Stanza 24)

The river flows, in sunshine and in sleet,

The ancient water, rushing to the sea.

The constant pulse, the slow, relentless beat,

Of time that holds all things in unity.

The rising tides, the falling of the moon,

A universe that sings a silent tune.

(Stanza 33)

The early flowers, a splash of fragile paint,

Upon the still and quiet, yielding lawn.

The world begins without a single taint,

A perfect, clean and freshly-painted dawn.

The world is born, and born and born again,

Without a whisper and without a sound,

And all the life that follows on the rain,

Is drawn from out the deep and fertile ground.

(Stanza 49)

And so it turns, the ancient, quiet dance,

The changing seasons, and the turning years.

The constant promise, and the patient chance,

That follows all the slow and gentle tears.

The old world dies, and the new world is born,

A gentle cycle, peaceful and complete,

And turns again with every quiet morn,

The steady, constant, gentle, slow, beat

(Stanza 51)

The whispered words of seasons come and go,

A silent promise written in the air,

A life that waits beneath the sleeping snow,

A quiet hope that chases all despair.

And in this dance, a quiet truth is found,

That all things fade, but always will return,

The spinning earth, a slow and silent round,

A lesson taught, and endless, slow to learn.

(Stanza 52)

The river flows, in sunshine and in sleet,

The ancient water, rushing to the sea.

The constant pulse, the slow, relentless beat,

Of time that holds all things in unity.

The rising tides, the falling of the moon,

A universe that sings a silent tune.

(Stanza 53)

The hidden life beneath the frozen streams,

The sleeping fish, the silent, waiting things.

A world of quiet, subterranean dreams,

That waits for water when the wild swan sings.

The fragile film of ice upon the pond,

A looking-glass for all the gray and bare,

Reflecting scenes from worlds that lie beyond,

And holds the still and sleeping spirit there.

(Stanza 54)

The winter night, a long and peaceful sleep.

A Lover's Agony.(EP).

Upon the river's bank, where willows weep,

And cast their watery shadows, dim and gray,

A maiden sat, her sorrows buried deep,

And rent the silent fabric of the day.

Her hands, with fevered purpose, tore away

The letters bound with ribbon, now undone,

And gave their sweet-writ treason to the sun.

The tokens of a love she thought was true,

A ring of silver, and a lover’s knot,

Were tossed to drown beneath the morning dew,

To be with time’s forgotten things forgot.

A weary man, observing from his plot

Of field, drew near, and with a gentle air,

Asked what great sorrow made her seem so bare.

"O sir," she cried, "the heart's most bitter tale,

Is not of honest loss or fortune's scorn,

But of a gilded lie that must prevail,

And leave the trusting heart forever torn.

I met a youth, upon a brighter morn,

Whose honeyed words, like perfume on the breeze,

Did steal my soul and set my thoughts at ease.

"He praised my eyes, and swore their sapphire hue

Held heaven’s light, and promised me a prize

Of truth that none but lovers ever knew,

And captured all my senses with his lies.

He spoke of stars and distant paradise,

And with each vow, a new belief was born,

A field of fragile promises and thorn.

"He told of women that had loved him well,

And gave him jewels, fine beyond all price,

But said their love was but a transient spell,

Not true affection, but a cold device.

And I, a lamb prepared for sacrifice,

Believed his words, and thought I was the one

Whose steadfast love would finally be won.

"With martial words, he spoke of his defense,

His heart a fort, until I laid siege,

And told me he would break my innocence,

And claim my soul and love, and make his pledge.

My honor was a city on the edge,

And though I fought, with reason's fragile shield,

My trembling heart, to his own love, did yield.

"He swore his love was different from the rest,

That I, the final harbor of his plea,

Was worth more than the queens he had possessed.

He stole my love, and made my spirit flee,

And then, when he was finished, set me free.

He turned away, with nary a regret,

And let his promises and vows be met.

"And so I sit, with every tear and ache,

And every memory that fills my mind,

And know that I would make the same mistake,

And to his false-sweet words would be inclined.

Though reason warns, and wisdom's words are kind,

That sweet betrayal that his love has brought

Is all that I, in this new world, have sought."

She turned away, with nary a regret,

And let his promises and vows be met."

With a cold heart, as frost upon the stone,

He left my soul to find its way alone.

And now I know, though wisdom's words are kind,

That sweet betrayal that his love has brought,

Is all that I, in this new world, have sought.

With that, she rose, and from her mantle drew

A faded portrait, sealed with his false crest,

And kissed the painted image, old and new,

Then gave the river this unfaithful guest.

"Go now," she cried, and with her hand she blessed

The waters that should bear his image down,

And wash away the sorrow of the town.

"The shepherd's call, the gentle bleating sheep,

The river’s flow, the whispering willow’s sigh,

Cannot compare to passions buried deep,

Nor to the lover’s cruel and cunning lie.

For all the world, beneath this open sky,

Is but a stage where fools like me are cast,

To live and love, and break their hearts at last.

"His face was like a book, where I could trace

The chapters of a love I thought was mine;

The hero’s triumph, and the villain’s place,

All woven in a tapestry divine.

But now I know the plot, the foul design,

And see the ending, writ in words of shame,

And find myself a fool, to speak his name.

"Yet still I love, and love him to my pain,

And wish his hand would find me once again,

And whisper words of love, and then disdain.

So let the river take my tears and pain,

And wash them clean, and make me whole again,

Or let me drown beneath its watery bed,

And find, at last, the solace of the dead."

And yet for all this grief, my heart remains

A well-trapped bird that flutters at his name.

His falsest whisper, falling fresh as rains

Upon the parched, and newly-planted shame,

Would make this humbled spirit rise again,

And chase the ghost of what he used to be,

Until I find new ruin, and new plea.

The older man, with sorrow on his face,

Did shake his head at her most woeful plight.

"Alas," he said, "the heart finds little grace

Where passion makes a darkness of the light.

The very balm you seek is bitter plight,

And yet you drink it with a willful hand,

As if the false were truth within this land."

"But what is truth," the maiden sadly sighed,

"When all my years were built on promises?

My soul believed the tales his lips supplied,

The tender, false, and whispered tenderness.

He tore my world, and yet I must confess,

The ruin left is fairer to my sight,

Than any new and honest morning's light.

"He filled me up with emptiness and lies,

And left a hollow in my soul, and then,

He walked away, beneath the summer skies,

And found some other flower to condemn.

And I, a fool, would welcome him again,

And let him trample all my newfound grace,

To simply see the light within his face.

"So let the letters drift upon the stream,

And let the tokens sink beneath the flow.

The story’s end is not as it would seem,

For with each tear, a new desire does grow.

Though all of truth is buried far below,

This heart, though broken, has one single wish:

To be betrayed again, with his soft kiss."

This continues the lament with elevated, archaic, and more complex vocabulary, emphasizing the dramatic and all-consuming nature of the betrayal.

The firmament did mock my woeful state,

With stars that glistered in indifferent grace,

As if to scorn the ruin of my fate,

And chronicle the blighting of my race.

My soul, once verdant, is a barren space,

A desert where the arid breezes sigh,

Beneath the gaze of that ironic sky.

My spirit, broken, now doth dwell alone,

Upon the shards of vows that turned to dust,

A hollow shell, where vibrant life was known,

Now filled with echoes of a broken trust.

The vibrant hues of hope have turned to rust,

And joy's sweet melody is now a dirge,

Upon despair's relentless, bitter surge.

The days stretch out, a monochrome expanse,

Each dawn a painful mirror of the past,

Where phantom smiles and whispered words still dance,

A cruel reminder that too good to last

Was love's brief bloom, by winter's chill recast.

And in this solitude, a heavy chain,

The weight of sorrow and enduring pain.

Upon a knoll, where verdant grasses sere,

My spirit, a sepulchre of sweet decay,

Recalls the moment, pregnant with the tear,

I saw thy face, and gave my soul away.

Thy visage, a phantasm of brilliant play,

Was framed by locks like threads of woven night,

A fleeting star that captured all my light.

My mind, a crucible of memory's fire,

Revisits all the oaths thy lips had sworn;

Each honeyed whisper, born of false desire,

A fleeting solace from a life forlorn.

But now, those vows, like delicate petals torn,

Are scattered to the winds of harsh regret,

A bitter vintage, which I must drink yet.

Thy words, a syren's song, a wicked lure,

Did draw my vessel to the jagged rock

Of disillusion, which I must endure,

And feel my shattered self receive the shock.

The chiding river, with its stony mock,

Does seem to whisper, "Fool, to be so blind,

And trust in a deceitful, fickle mind."

O, that my heart, a frail and fragile thing,

Had not been caught within thy tangled snare,

And felt the agonizing, piercing sting

Of love betrayed, and hope turned to despair.

But I, an unsuspecting, foolish heir

To a realm of sorrow, must now endure,

This bitter draught, this poison, without cure.

In shadows veiled, my soul, a chrysalis,

Doth contemplate this venomous bequest,

A chalice filled with honey-sweet abyss,

And proffered as a test for my poor breast.

The guerdon of thy love, a hollow jest,

That leaves behind a torment, dark and cold,

More precious than the treasures of thy gold.

This dolorous heart, a plundered, barren town,

Retains the memory of thy feigned siege.

Thou didst possess me, with a victor's frown,

And then, departing, broke thy solemn liege.

And I, thy chattel, lost upon the sea,

Now drift upon the tides of my despair,

And breathe the salt of my own bitter air.

Thou wast a god, a titan, in my sight,

Thy voice the thunder of a nascent world,

Thy every glance a consecrated rite.

But in the end, thy banners were unfurled

To leave me shipwrecked, all my hopes unpearled,

A monument to love's corrosive art,

The desolation of a broken heart.

No respite comes to this tormented soul,

No sweet nepenthe for my shattered mind.

My reason, once in sovereign, full control,

Is now a castaway, a derelict left behind.

This labyrinthine anguish, by design,

Is built of promises, a gilded cage,

And I, imprisoned, watch my hope decline.

The lexicon of love is now a lie,

A dialect of calculated sound,

Each phrase a poisoned arrow from the sky,

Each tender word a trap upon the ground.

His artifice in sentiment was crowned

With feigned devotion, a celestial guise,

To hide the truth within his empty eyes.

Oh, were I but a creature of the clay,

A vessel with no purpose save to be,

To feel no pain when love has gone astray,

Nor mourn a future that was not to see.

But I, with intellect and memory,

Am forced to bear the burden of my plight,

And know the darkness that has quenched my light.

With such high-flown, grandiose rhetoric,

It is difficult to continue this poetic work

Without seeming like a parody of itself.

Yet, in truth, my heart is but a feeble thing,

A hollow shell, where vibrant life was known,

Now filled with echoes of a broken trust.

This labyrinthine anguish, by design,

Is built of promises, a gilded cage,

And I, imprisoned, watch my hope decline.

Thy visage, a phantasm of brilliant play,

Was framed by locks like threads of woven night,

A fleeting star that captured all my light.

His falsest whisper, falling fresh as rains

Upon the parched, and newly-planted shame,

Would make this humbled spirit rise again.

And chase the ghost of what he used to be,

Until I find new ruin, and new plea.

My mind, a crucible of memory's fire,

Revisits all the oaths thy lips had sworn;

Each honeyed whisper, born of false desire,

A fleeting solace from a life forlorn.

But now, those vows, like delicate petals torn,

Are scattered to the winds of harsh regret,

A bitter vintage, which I must drink yet.

Thy words, a syren's song, a wicked lure,

Did draw my vessel to the jagged rock

Of disillusion, which I must endure,

And feel my shattered self receive the shock.

The chiding river, with its stony mock,

Does seem to whisper, "Fool, to be so blind,

And trust in a deceitful, fickle mind."

And in this solitude, a heavy chain,

The weight of sorrow and enduring pain,

Are but a monument to love's corrosive art,

The desolation of a broken heart.

But what is truth, when all my years were built on promises?

My soul believed the tales his lips supplied,

The tender, false, and whispered tenderness.

With that, she rose, and from her mantle drew

A faded portrait, sealed with his false crest,

And kissed the painted image, old and new.

Then gave the river this unfaithful guest.

"Go now," she cried, and with her hand she blessed

The waters that should bear his image down,

And wash away the sorrow of the town.

"The shepherd's call, the gentle bleating sheep,

The river’s flow, the whispering willow’s sigh,

Cannot compare to passions buried deep,

Nor to the lover’s cruel and cunning lie.

For all the world, beneath this open sky,

Is but a stage where fools like me are cast,

To live and love, and break their hearts at last.

"His face was like a book, where I could trace

The chapters of a love I thought was mine;

The hero’s triumph, and the villain’s place,

All woven in a tapestry divine.

But now I know the plot, the foul design,

And see the ending, writ in words of shame,

And find myself a fool, to speak his name.

"Yet still I love, and love him to my pain,

And wish his hand would find me once again,

And whisper words of love, and then disdain.

So let the river take my tears and pain,

And wash them clean, and make me whole again,

Or let me drown beneath its watery bed,

And find, at last, the solace of the dead."

But no, to end is to release his thrall,

To find oblivion and to be unbound.

This exquisite torment, I would not let it fall,

But cherish it, a poisoned wreath, and crowned

Myself with it. And though my spirit, drowned,

Knows naught but sorrow, still it would not cease,

This bitter music that grants no final peace.

The aged man, with furrows in his brow,

Did listen to her piteous refrain,

And in her madness, saw a truth, somehow,

That passion, like a devastating rain,

Can quench the fire, yet leave a burning stain.

He saw her fate, her self-inflicted plight,

A moth that flutters to a fatal light.

And so she sat, a statue carved of grief,

Upon the riverbank, forever lost,

A prisoner to her own strong belief,

That in her ruin, she had paid the cost

Of love, and though her heart was winter-frost,

She would not yield, nor seek a lesser prize,

But gaze forever at her own dark skies.

To her monodic dirge, the atmosphere

Assumed a somber, lachrymose veneer,

Reflecting back her desolate despair,

The consummation of her mortal fear.

The senescent willow, a lugubrious peer,

Did drop its leaves, a rustling, final sound,

Upon the desecrated, hallowed ground.

Her psyche, once a palimpsest of glee,

Was now a codex, filled with cryptic pain,

A cartulary of what could never be,

A chronicle of his capricious reign.

The subtle poison of his suave disdain

Had permeated every fragile thought,

And left a wilderness where love had fought.

The river's ceaseless, melancholic flow,

The aqueous analogue of her own grief,

Carried her dreams to where the dead things go,

A final, desolate and dark relief.

Her heart, a synecdoche of human chief,

Did stand for every soul, a martyr's lot,

In love's forgotten, and most cursed, plot.

She saw the phantasmagoria of their past,

A fleeting pageant of illusions grand,

A fragile edifice, too fine to last,

Built on the shifting, penitential sand.

The cruel apotheosis of his hand,

That once did tenderly caress her hair,

Had left her shattered, in a wild despair.

Her eidetic mind, a tormenting domain,

Replayed the scenes of his perfidious guise,

Each whispered vow, a serpentine refrain,

Each tender glance, an anodyne of lies.

She saw his artifice with vacant eyes,

The subtle, choreographed, theatrical play,

That stole her peace and cast her soul astray.

The vernal world, a verdant, fertile space,

Had lost its chromatic, vibrant sheen;

Her desiccated heart found no solace,

In nature's languid, placid, sylvan scene.

The sun, a fiery orb, a tyrant queen,

Did burn with an acrid, sulphurous heat,

A bitter contrast to her life, now beat.

The flotsam of her love, a broken fleet,

Did drift upon the river's sullen tide;

A testament to promises obsolete,

And passion's final, desolate divide.

Her very being, hollowed out inside,

Was but a mausoleum of her past,

Where shattered hopes, like broken idols, cast.

No sweet release, no anodyne of sleep,

Could grant her mind a respite from its fray;

For in her dreams, the memories would creep,

And steal the final vestiges of day.

She saw his face, a beautiful display

Of perfidy, a mask of cold design,

And drank the dregs of sorrow, steeped in wine.

Upon this crag, where tempests rage and cease,

The jagged granite, stoic, stands alone,

A silent sentinel, in stark unease,

By forces elemental overthrown.

The winds, a chorus, in a mournful groan,

Whip the salt spray, a lashing, stinging veil,

Against the rock, in an eternal wail.

The ocean's breadth, a canvas, vast and deep,

Reflects the sky, in hues of storm and gray,

Where ancient secrets, in its depths, do sleep,

And tides relentlessly wear rocks away.

The gulls, like specters, in the fading day,

Scream their dissent, against the gathering gloom,

Forecasting tempests, in the ocean's room.

The spray-kissed lichen, clinging to the stone,

A tenacious life, defying the harsh clime,

A testament to nature's power shown,

Enduring trials, thr

Golden Roses At Glassright Connundrum.part one

Dijd the glassright connundrum ever brawl for the golden roses of the morning State?

Vast geometry of silence coast over the dross of the sunbeam glean

Each share turning a thin layer of obscure history 

 Hollow chores mundane hollow fractures

Elves in the unquestionable rampage

Where eves in transit found the eagles in flights

Mirrored darkness spins upon the glee of mutual silence

Where glitches glitch upon glitches and hardly intrude bizarre glimpses,

With worn out pit alloy in empty shallows cling against the rooftops 

Shadowy rainbow stung the prism of colours drown.

As velvety calculus stalls the pivot trills

Ghost recalls the theorem that they cannot prove over listening hums of broken silence.

Seething copper coil sewered the mettle of a weeping earth

Parellel lines in peril where motionless landscapes totters in the giddying viles of sunken shores.

As the theorem of the farce misfits the theorem of the verity

The rejoicing earth and the rejoicing sky must vommit differences for the placate earth.

Illusory scarecrows emit embittered clouds as coxswain exit morning crows with fallen dough

The glassright connundrum go berserk at the point of stillness into the doddering distance of the learning curve.

Not perturbed with the axiom of obsidian spree,

To avail a carious sun the theft of verdigris orb,at the acme of himalayas,

To degrade light of the ether's appogee,limned shadows over cerrulean hymn,

And assault perhelion over chalice of scolded brin and nefarious glim

The ethereal spires in the gloo of broken tombu, gloating over Gnosis of Cthonian cadence

Calibrate the casuistic jungles with ghostly penumbra of orbed earth that strikes lambent

Itchily over loom of phantasmagoric obumbrates,

Caducous grief shed them elegy of broken tombu and denigrated epitaphs of forlorn throes

Sepia shores in partial whole,tethers floculent descent across the highly strewn fulvous memory of the umbeliferous ambience

That abhors the chronography of the unmoored times,

Not the palimpsest of the sumnambulist's parody and the stylographs of the gnostic cartographers,

To endow sessame street with haptic toponym of psychopompic journeys and bitersweet by gone wars