The Atlas Of Whisper.part one.(EP).

       

            The Atlas of Whisper

                      Chapter 1

Here a librarian in thus novel by blackpower discovers a secret map.

Elara lived her life in the hushed, orderly world of the Grand Archives, a place where the dust of centuries was a comforting blanket, and the creak of floorboards a familiar melody. At twenty-nine, her days were a precise ritual of cataloging and conservation, a quiet existence perfectly suited to her. She was a curator of forgotten things, a guardian of stories that had ceased to be told.

Her latest project was the basement of the Annex, a place no one had properly organized in a hundred years. It was a chaotic burial ground of misplaced knowledge, filled with crumbling ledgers and forgotten charts. On a shelf bowed under the weight of oversized books, Elara found it: an atlas bound in dark, scuffed leather, unmarked save for a single, tarnished brass clasp. The cover was a map in itself, etched with intricate, spidery lines that seemed to form constellations.

When she managed to pry the clasp open, it didn't reveal pages of ink and paper. Instead, the inside cover was a deep, unblemished blue, like the surface of a still pond. She ran her hand over it, half-expecting to feel velvet, but the surface was smooth and cool. As her fingers brushed the center, she felt a faint tremor. The blue shifted, swirling like ink in water, and a shimmer of light pulsed from the corner of her eye. She drew her hand back, startled, but the light remained. It was a single, shimmering star, glowing faintly in the center of the deep blue expanse.

Elara’s breath hitched. This was not a book, but a whisper of a map, dormant until touched. As the light from the first star brightened, another appeared, and then another, each one tracing a delicate, impossible line of silver across the blue expanse. This map did not chart continents or oceans, but something else entirely—a hidden geography that had been waiting for her to discover it. She held her breath, the rustle of the archives around her now seeming to vanish entirely. The Atlas of Whispers was awake. And so was a story she never knew existed

Chapter 2

The library had been a silent cathedral, a tomb of lost stories. Now, Elara heard a chorus of ghosts. The Atlas, which she had so casually handled, was singing. It hummed in her hands, a low, resonating thrum that vibrated up her forearms and settled as a strange, exciting tension in her chest.

She placed the opened book on her large oak desk, carefully pushing aside a stack of fragile, vellum-bound folios. The shimmer of the etched map within pulsed, each tiny light a silent chime. The Grand Archives were built upon layers of secrets, but Elara had always assumed those secrets were inert—bound within pages, waiting for a human mind to release them. This was different. This secret was alive.

Her fingers trembled as she leaned closer. The central, bright star was anchored to nothing she recognized. It wasn't a familiar capital city or a landmark. In fact, the entire geography was alien, a landscape of silvery, shifting lines that defied all known cartography. The lines were not rivers or borders; they were more like constellations, like a nervous system of silver branching across the blue expanse.

As Elara watched, a new shimmer appeared near the edge of the map, a fragile, almost imperceptible gleam. It pulsed once, twice, then winked out. A flicker of panic ran through her. Had she done something wrong? Had she activated something she couldn't control? The thought sent a jolt of fear through her librarian's sensibilities. Order and preservation were her life's work. She was an archivist, not an adventurer.

She instinctively tried to close the book, to seal the magic away, but the Atlas resisted. It lay open and unyielding. Frustrated, she tried to push the pages together again, and as she did, a small, paper-thin object slipped from between the pages, falling soundlessly to the desk.

It was an old, folded piece of paper, the edges browned and brittle. Unfolding it with the careful precision of her trade, she found it was a note written in elegant, looping script. The ink was faded, but readable.

"To the one who awakens the whispers," it began. "You have heard the call. They are searching for the key. Do not give it to them."

Elara’s heart hammered against her ribs. The note was unsigned, but its message was chilling. It implied a conspiracy and danger beyond the quiet stacks she had always called home. Who were "they"? And what was the key she was meant to protect? Her hand hovered over the paper, her tranquil life in the Grand Archives suddenly feeling like a fragile piece of history, just waiting to be broken. Her days of cataloging and calm were over. She had become a part of the story.

Chapter 3

Elara’s world, once a fortress of predictable knowledge, was now a fractured landscape. She held the fragile note in one hand and the humming Atlas in the other, a perilous tightrope stretched between the past and an unknowable future. The library, which had always been her sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage. Every shadow, every distant whisper, seemed to hold a sinister new meaning.

The note's cryptic warning echoed in her mind: "They are searching for the key. Do not give it to them." Her gaze flickered over the blue map. The shifting, silver lines. Could the "key" be what the Atlas showed? Or was the key something else entirely?

A sudden, sharp sound cut through the silence, not the gentle creak of old wood, but the solid clack-clack of footsteps on stone, purposeful and too close. Elara’s heart seized in her chest. She had been so absorbed in the Atlas she hadn't heard anyone approach. Scrambling, she slammed the Atlas shut and swept the brittle note underneath a pile of ledgers.

A figure appeared in the doorway of the Annex, silhouetted against the bright light of the main library. He was tall and lean, with a dark, wool coat buttoned high against a chill that wasn't there. His hair was a shock of silver, but his face was young, sharp, and intense.

"Curator Elara?" he asked, his voice smooth and low, like a polished river stone. "My apologies for the intrusion. I was looking for the historical records on the Annex's restoration, circa 1904. An old family matter."

The man's eyes, a piercing shade of moss-green, flickered over Elara's desk. It was an unnervingly thorough look, and she felt a blush creeping up her neck. He seemed to notice the slight disarray, the hurried manner in which she had concealed her discovery.

"Right," Elara stammered, pulling her composure around her like a cloak. "Those records are a bit misplaced at the moment. The Annex is a work in progress."

"Indeed," he replied, but his gaze didn't meet hers. Instead, he stared intently at the closed Atlas. It was pushed slightly to the side of her desk, its worn leather and mysterious brass clasp a stark contrast to the faded books around it. Elara held her breath, the humming from the book a low thrum against her fingertips. She was certain he couldn’t hear it, but his intense focus on it made her doubt herself.

"That’s a curious piece," he said, taking a step closer. "I've not seen that binding before. Is it a recent acquisition?"

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Sometimes, the most interesting things are the ones hiding in plain sight. My name is Kael. Kael Varis. And I believe we have a mutual interest in the things that lie beneath the dust."

The humming from the Atlas grew louder, a persistent pulse against Elara’s palm. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that Kael Varis was not here for family records. He had a different kind of hunger in his eyes. And she was holding exactly what he was looking for.

Elara tightened her grip on the edge of her desk. "It’s... an old piece," she said, her voice strained. "From the back shelves. Nothing of any interest."

Chapter 4

Kael’s smile was a calculated, practiced thing, a smooth stone masking the predatory intent in his eyes. He moved with a languid grace that unnerved Elara, circling her desk like a wolf assessing its prey. The air in the Annex thickened with unspoken meaning, the hum of the Atlas a silent alarm.

"It seems we're both drawn to buried things," Kael said, his gaze fixed on her hands, which were still clutched defensively over the closed book. "But you, I suspect, stumbled upon this by accident. While I… I have been searching for it for a very long time."

Elara’s mind raced, a whirlwind of fear and disbelief. "I'm afraid you have the wrong impression, Mr. Varis. This is just… an old book."

Kael laughed, a low, humorless sound. "It's a wonder how librarians always know exactly what to say to make things seem mundane. But I can feel it from here, Elara. The echo of its power. And so can you, I assume, or you wouldn't be clutching it like a drowning woman to a life raft."

His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "The note you found... it was a safeguard. An alarm bell set off by the book's awakening. And I'm afraid you were the unfortunate one to hear it." He stepped closer, his scent, like wet stone and something wild, filling her space.

Elara’s pulse hammered against her ribs. She was a scholar, not a fighter. Her only weapon was knowledge, and right now, she was outmatched.

"What do you want?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"What we all want," he replied, his eyes finally meeting hers, and for a moment, the artifice dropped, revealing a deep, ancient hunger. "To find the key. The note was right about that. The map, however, is merely the first part of the lock. I just need you to show me what it shows you."

He reached for the book. It was an almost lazy, confident gesture, as if he knew she wouldn't resist. But the note's warning, the phrase "Do not give it to them," rang in her ears. Driven by a primal fear, Elara recoiled, pulling the Atlas tight against her chest.

"No," she said, the word a small, trembling shard of defiance.

A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Kael's face, quickly replaced by a sharp, cold amusement. "Very well," he said, taking a

An Exordium To the Egress Of Consciousness.(EP).

     An Exordium to the Egress of Consciousness

Beneath the opalescent vault of cerulean, where the firmament

Unfurls its inchoate banners, the prolegomenon of being

Unspools, a vast, cacophonous symphony of sentience.

We, the ephemeral ephemera, traverse the palimpsest of days,

Each moment an evanescent glyph inscribed upon the aeviternal text.

The quotidian quotidian, with its lugubrious repetition,

Is but a threnody to the halcyon, the halcyon, irremeable and lost.

A zephyr, ambrosial and diaphanous, whispers of proleptic fears,

Of eschatological dreads coiled within the chthonian depths.

We are born of a terrestrial sepulchre, and to a sepulchre we return,

Our souls, a fragile, numinous residue, wafting into the ether.

The fulminations of our transient fury, our ephemeral ire,

Are but a fleeting, nugatory flare in the cosmic tapestry.

The effluvium of our collective sorrow, the miasma of our woes,

Conglomerates into a tenebrous nebula of despondency.

But within this entropic entropy, this slow, inevitable ebb,

A singular, auroral spark of resistance glimmers, a resolute ember.

The ebullient ardor of the spirit, a sempiternal flame,

Defies the nihilistic undertow, the siren song of oblivion.

We are the alchemists of meaning, forging significance from the abyss,

Transmuting the dross of desperation into aureate verse.

With lexical dexterity, we contrive, we conceive, we create,

Eviscerating silence with a susurrus of seraphic sound.

And so, we indite our verses, a testament to our indomitable will,

An exegesis of the inexorable, the ineffable, the sublime.

Each stanza, a filigree of thought, a labyrinthine tessellation,

A monument to the callipygian and the grotesque.

We are the raconteurs of the human condition, the chroniclers of our own demise,

Our words, a resplendent, iridescent shroud laid over the abyss.

For even in the final, cataclysmic crescendo, the ultimate quietus,

The reverberations of our utterance will echo, a resonant, sonorous chime.

Through the chthonian coils of the subconscious, where

The eidetic phantasms disport in their phantasmagoria,

The somnambulist peregrinates, a wraith in the hypnagogic gloom.

Each footfall, a metronomic beat against the anacoluthon of time,

Echoing in the interstices of the mind's architecture.

The anamnesis, that palimpsest of remembered joys and fears,

Fractures and reconfigures, a kaleidoscope of mnemonic debris.

The consciousness, a frail, tenuous filament, threads

Through the aporia of non-being, a Sisyphean struggle

Against the encroaching, ineluctable tenebrosity.

We are the architects of our own aporia, the artificers

Of our own despair, fashioning an autotelic torment.

The apotheosis of our being is but a proleptic chimera,

A siren song sung from the shoals of impending cessation.

The effulgence of lucidity is a brief, transient flare

Before the inexorable, abyssal immersion into nullity.

But within this eschatological fugue, this cosmic, melancholic strain,

A singular, stubborn obstinacy persists, a quixotic resolve.

The idiolect of the soul, its singular, idiosyncratic voice,

Refuses to be silenced, a defiant, solitary note.

For even as the final, irrevocable quietus looms,

The sempiternal spirit, in its own cryptic way, continues.

And so, the somnambulist, guided by an unseen lodestar,

Traverses the antinomy of being, the paradoxical labyrinth.

The aeviternal void whispers its promises of peace,

A seductive, anodyne balm for the spirit's fevered quest.

But the spirit, a recalcitrant, peripatetic enigma,

Knows that the journey, not the destination, is all.

The odyssey continues, a testament to the indomitable,

A panegyric to the ephemeral, the magnificent, the lost.

Ode to a Quiddity's Penumbra

In the hypogeal stasis of a forgotten epoch, where

The sybaritic hedonists of an inchoate world,

Confabulate and fulminate against the inexorable,

The chthonian effluvium of their desultory discourse

Permeates the crepuscular air, a miasma of indolence.

We, the recalcitrant raconteurs of a dying star,

Indite our testament, a testament to the inexorable quietus.

The phantasmagoric tapestry of our collective anamnesis,

A tessellation of lugubrious memories and halcyon chimeras,

Unspools before the peripatetic gaze of the unblinking,

The unblinking, the irremeable, the aeviternal abyss.

The concatenation of events, the inexorable concatenation,

Propels us toward the eschatological crescendo,

A cacophonous symphony of entropy and decay.

The fugue of our existence, a melancholic andante,

Echoes in the interstices of the cosmos,

A susurrus of seraphic sound, a spectral threnody.

The pellucid streams of our collective consciousness,

Once ebullient with ardor and promise,

Now meander through the catacombs of our senescence,

A languid and listless rivulet, a dirge for the demised.

But within this tenebrous nadir, this ontological nullity,

A singular, auroral spark of resistance glimmers,

A veritable flammeum, a defiant and intrepid ember.

The quiddity of our being, the irreducible essence,

Defies the nihilistic undertow, the siren song of oblivion.

With lexical prestidigitation, we forge meaning,

Transmuting the dross of desperation into aureate verse,

Eviscerating the silence with a susurrus of dissent.

And so, we continue, a procession of anachronistic beings,

Our souls, a fragile and numinous residue,

Clinging to the filigree of existence, the gossamer veil.

The odyssey, the callipygian and the grotesque,

The sublime and the quotidian, intertwine,

A panegyric to the ephemera, the magnificent, the lost.

We are the architects of our own aporia, the artificers

Of our own despair, fashioning an autotelic torment.

And in the final, cataclysmic quietus, the ultimate hush,

The reverberations of our utterance will echo,

A resonant, sonorous chime, a sempiternal testament to our existence.

An Aeviternal Anamnesis of the Anacoluthic Soul

The phantasmagoria of perception, a caliginous chiaroscuro,

Unfurls before the somnambulant mind, a palimpsest of days.

Each ephemeral glyph, a mnemonic trace inscribed on

The chthonian surface of the consciousness, a testament to the

Irremeable flow of the aeviternal continuum.

We, the recalcitrant raconteurs of a nascent, dying star,

Narrate our apotheosis, our inexorable descent into the nullity.

A catachresis of the soul, a profound and paradoxical truth,

Where the abstract becomes concrete, the concrete, a vaporous myth.

The fulminations of our transient fury, a futile, feckless flare

In the vast, ineffable tapestry of the cosmos.

The hypallage of our existence, a transferred epithet,

Where joy is a tenebrous veil, and sorrow, a resplendent crown.

We are the architects of our own aporia, the artificers of

An autotelic torment, a self-referential spiral into the abyss.

With lexical dexterity, we contrive, we conceive, we create,

Inditing our verses, an exegesis of the ineffable sublime.

Each stanza, a filigree of thought, a labyrinthine tessellation,

A monument to the callipygian and the grotesque, the beautiful and the bizarre.

The enjambment of our days, the ceaseless flow of moments,

A poetic device mirroring the relentless march toward the quietus.

The effluvium of our collective sorrow, a miasma of woes,

Conglomerates into a tenebrous nebula of despondency.

And in the final, cataclysmic crescendo, the ultimate cessation,

The reverberations of our utterance will echo, a sonorous chime,

A symphonic synesthesia of the spirit, where color tastes of sound,

And sound, a tactile, tangible embrace.

The metonymy of being, a part standing in for the whole,

Our mortal coil, a synecdoche of the cosmic, eternal wheel.

For even as the ephemeral ephemera, we transcend the terrestrial,

Our words, a resplendent, iridescent shroud laid over the abys

In the hypnagogic interstice where mentation wanes,

The peripatetic gnosis, a palimpsest of days,

Unfurls its tenebrous scrolls, a testament to the

Ineffable sublime, the aeviternal continuum.

The effluvium of forgotten fears, a miasma of woes,

Rises from the chthonian depths, a lugubrious symphony.

We, the recalcitrant raconteurs of a nascent, dying star,

Narrate our apotheosis, our inexorable descent into nullity.

The fulminations of our transient fury, a futile, feckless flare,

In the vast, ineffable tapestry of the cosmos,

Are but an evanescent glyph, a nugatory trace.

The quotidian quotidian, with its cacophonous clamor,

Is a sepulchre for the halcyon, the irremeable, the lost.

The anacoluthon of time, an abrupt change in the syntax of being,

Fractures our anamnesis, a kaleidoscope of mnemonic debris.

But in the aporia of non-being, where meaning ossifies,

A singular, auroral spark of resistance glimmers, a resolute ember.

The ebullient ardor of the spirit, a sempiternal flame,

Defies the nihilistic undertow, the siren song of oblivion.

With lexical prestidigitation, we forge significance from the abyss,

Transmuting the dross of desperation into aureate verse.

For even as the final, irrevocable quietus looms,

The sempiternal spirit, in its own cryptic way, endures.

The odyssey continues, a symphonic synesthesia of the soul,

Where sound tastes of color and color, a tangible embrace.

The metonymy of being, a part standing in for the whole,

Our mortal coil, a synecdoche of the eternal, cosmic wheel.

For even as the ephemeral ephemera, we transcend the terrestrial,

Our words, a resplendent, iridescent shroud laid over the abyss.

And in the final, cataclysmic crescendo, the ultimate cessation,

The reverberations of our utterance will echo, a sonorous chime,

A panegyric to the ephemera, the magnificent, the lost.

Digital Elegy for a Solipsistic Cosmos

In the hypogeal stasis of a screen-lit room,

The psyche's palimpsest scrolls

Each pixilated phantom, a mnemonic ghost,

Refracts a self-same visage, an eidetic host.

The catachresis of connection, a fractured feed,

Pollinates the emptiness with an algorithmic creed. 

A fulgurating discord, an insipid hum,

Obfuscates the meaning of what we have become.

The anacoluthon of a thought, left incomplete,

Echoes through a wireless-networked, solipsistic street.

We curate our apotheosis in a truncated frame,

Performing quietus for a self-referential name. 

The semaphore of emojis, a truncated sign,

Replaces the profundity of a personal design.

Our transient fury, a feckless, fleeting flare,

Is archived in the metadata of an insentient air.

The sempiternal spirit, now a digital shade,

Lingers in the effluvium of a data-stream parade. 

And so we linger, tethered to the electric tether,

Exchanging simulacra in the virtual ether.

Each stanza, a filigree of a fragmented mind,

A testament to the future we have left behind.

For even as the final, cataclysmic cursor blinks,

We are consumed by the abyss our own connection links.

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Ode to the Aeviternal Penumbra

In the tenebrous umbra of a forgotten star,

Where time's chronometry has lost its parsec,

The phantasmagoria of perception, a caliginous chiaroscuro,

Unfurls before the somnambulant mind's eye.

Each ephemeral glyph, a mnemonic trace inscribed

On the chthonian surface of the consciousness,

A testament to the irremeable flow of the

Aeviternal continuum, the cosmic fugue.

The anacoluthon of being, a fractured syntax,

Where the subject of existence finds no predicate,

Propels us toward the eschatological crescendo,

A cacophonous symphony of entropy and decay.

The effluvium of our collective sorrow, a miasma,

Conglomerates into a nebulous mass of despair.

We, the recalcitrant raconteurs of a nascent,

Dying star, indite our verses, our lament.

The hypnagogic interstice, a liminal space,

Where mentation wanes and dreams take their place,

Is where the peripatetic gnosis, the palimpsest,

Unfurls its tenebrous scrolls, a testament to

The ineffable sublime, the grand, cosmic theme.

The fulminations of our transient fury, a feckless flare,

In the vast, ineffable tapestry of the cosmos,

Are but a fleeting, nugatory trace, a vaporous myth.

The quotidian quotidian, with its cacophonous clamor,

Is but a sepulchre for the halcyon, the lost, the forlorn.

The metonymy of being, a part standing in for the whole,

Our mortal coil, a synecdoche of the eternal, cosmic wheel.

The hypallage of our existence, a transferred epithet,

Where joy is a tenebrous veil and sorrow, a resplendent crown.

We are the architects of our own aporia, the artificers

Of an autotelic torment, a self-referential spiral.

But in the aporia of non-being, where meaning ossifies,

A singular, auroral spark of resistance glimmers, a resolute ember.

The ebullient ardor of the spirit, a sempiternal flame,

Defies the nihilistic undertow, the siren song of oblivion.

With lexical prestidigitation, we forge significance from the abyss,

Transmuting the dross of desperation into aureate verse.

Eviscerating the silence with a susurrus of dissent,

A defiant, solitary note in the grand, cosmic fugue.

The odyssey continues, a symphonic synesthesia of the soul,

Where sound tastes of color and color, a tangible embrace.

The filigree of existence, the gossamer veil,

Clings to the vestiges of our indomitable will.

The callipygian and the grotesque, the sublime and the quotidian,

Intertwine, a panegyric to the ephemeral, the magnificent, the lost.

The eidetic phantasms, in their phantasmagoria,

Disport in the hypnagogic gloom, a danse macabre.

The sempiternal spirit, in its own cryptic way, endures,

Even as the final, irrevocable quietus looms,

The aeviternal void whispering its promises of peace,

A seductive, anodyne balm for the spirit's fevered quest.

But the spirit, a recalcitrant, peripatetic enigma,

Knows that the journey, not the destination, is all,

A testament to the indomitable, the resilient, the lost,

Our words, a resplendent, iridescent shroud laid over the abyss.

And in the final, cataclysmic crescendo, the ultimate cessation,

The reverberations of our utterance will echo, a sonorous chime,

A cosmic metronome, a reminder of our fleeting existence,

A brief but brilliant flare in the vast, tenebrous sea.

The concatenation of moments, the relentless flow of time,

A Sisyphean struggle against the encroaching, ineluctable tenebrosity,

We, the ephemeral ephemera, traverse the palimpsest of days,

Each moment an evanescent glyph, a fleeting, precious phrase.

The prolegomenon of being, the prologue of our existence,

Unspools, a vast, cacophonous symphony of sentience,

A threnody to the halcyon, the halcyon, irremeable and lost.

The zephyr, ambrosial and diaphanous, whispers of proleptic fears,

Of eschatological dreads coiled within the chthonian depths,

The effluvium of our collective sorrow, a miasma of woes,

Conglomerates into a tenebrous nebula of despondency,

The eidetic phantasms disporting in their phantasmagoria.

The anamnesis, that palimpsest of remembered joys and fears,

Fractures and reconfigures, a kaleidoscope of mnemonic debris,

The fugue of our existence, a melancholic andante,

Echoes in the interstices of the cosmos, a susurrus, a ghostly sound.

The pellucid streams of our collective consciousness, once ebullient,

Now meander through the catacombs of our senescence,

A languid and listless rivulet, a dirge for the demised,

A reminder of our transient, ephemeral phase.

But within this entropic entropy, this slow, inevitable ebb,

A singular, auroral spark of resistance glimmers, a resolute ember,

The ebullient ardor of the spirit, a sempiternal flame,

Defies the nihilistic undertow, the siren song of oblivion.

We are the alchemists of meaning, forging significance from the abyss,

Transmuting the dross of desperation into aureate verse,

With lexical dexterity, we contrive, we conceive, we create,

Eviscerating silence with a susurrus of seraphic sound.

And so, we indite our verses, a testament to our indomitable will,

An exegesis of the inexorable, the ineffable, the sublime,

Each stanza, a filigree of thought, a labyrinthine tessellation,

A monument to the callipygian and the grotesque, the beautiful and the bizarre.

We are the raconteurs of the human condition, the chroniclers of our own demise,

Our words, a resplendent, iridescent shroud laid over the abyss,

For even in the final, cataclysmic crescendo, the ultimate quietus,

The reverberations of our utterance will echo, a resonant, sonorous chime.

And the sempiternal spirit, in its own cryptic way, endures,

The odyssey continuing, a symphonic synesthesia of the soul,

Where sound tastes of color and color, a tangible embrace,

The metonymy of being, a part standing in for the whole,

Our mortal coil, a synecdoche of the eternal, cosmic wheel,

For even as the ephemeral ephemera, we transcend the terrestrial,

Our words, a resplendent, iridescent shroud laid over the abyss,

A panegyric to the ephemera, the magnificent, the lost.

The hypogeal stasis, a forgotten epoch, a sybaritic world,

The chthonian effluvium, a miasma of indolence,

The recalcitrant raconteurs, the inditing of testament,

The inexorable quietus, the phantasmagoric tapestry,

The tessellation of lugubrious memories, halcyon chimeras,

The peripatetic gaze of the unblinking, the irremeable abyss,

The concatenation of events, the eschatological crescendo,

A cacophonous symphony of entropy and decay.

The fugue of existence, a melancholic andante,

The interstices of the cosmos, a susurrus of seraphic sound,

The spectral threnody, the pellucid streams,

The ebullient with ardor and promise, the catacombs of senescence,

The languid and listless rivulet, a dirge for the demised,

The tenebrous nadir, the ontological nullity,

The singular, auroral spark, a defiant and intrepid ember,

The quiddity of our being, the irreducible essence.

The lexical prestidigitation, the forging of meaning,

The transmuting of dross, the aureate verse,

The eviscerating of silence, the susurrus of dissent,

The defiant, solitary note, the anachronistic procession,

The fragile and numinous residue, the clinging to filigree,

The gossamer veil, the callipygian and the grotesque,

The sublime and the quotidian, the intertwining,

A panegyric to the ephemera, the magnificent, the lost.

The architects of our own aporia, the artificers of despair,

The fashioning of autotelic torment, the cataclysmic quietus,

The reverberations of our utterance, the resonant, sonorous chime,

A sempiternal testament to our existence, the phantasmagoria of perception,

The caliginous chiaroscuro, the somnambulant mind's eye,

The ephemeral glyph, the m

An Ode to the labyrythine Lexicon and other Collections.(EP).

An ode to the power of language, this poem employs a challenging vocabulary to explore the complex, labyrinthine nature of the human intellect and its expression. It delves into themes of communication and comprehension, using recondite words to illustrate the difficulty of fully grasping another's mind.

Ode to the Labyrinthine Lexicon

The noetic torrent, gushing from the fount

Of cerebric contusion, leaves us fraught.

We crave a language fit to surmount

The mental barricades where thoughts are caught.

A logodaedaly, a verbal art,

To articulate the soul's profoundest ache;

A labyrinthine lexical chart

For the feelings that the common words forsake.

The logophile in me demands a tongue

Of callipygian form and aureate gleam,

Where every mellifluous word is hung

Like opaline fruit from an Elysian dream.

But oh, the cacophonous clamor of the world,

The zeugma of our hopes and our despair,

As liminal meanings get uncurled

And leave our fragile thoughts exposed and bare.

I’ve met the ataraxic stoic and the ebullient sage,

The halcyon soul and the lovelorn heart.

Each holds a glossary on their own stage,

A lexicon of which I know no part.

A palimpsest of sorrows they convey,

A whisper of a sempiternal truth,

Which in my anamnesis fades away,

A hiraeth for my lost, unspoken youth.

So I become a philodox, a mere seeker of the word,

A solipsist of syntax, and of phrase;

For all the verbal glories I have heard

Are but a palinode in my own haze.

I find myself in silent, noetic space,

Where apricity and shadow coexist;

And realize that language, for all its grace,

Is the very cage that I myself have kissed.

I offer you this autodidactic plea,

This peripatetic wandering of mind,

To plumb the depths of what it means to be,

And hope, in all its darkness, you will find,

A meaning not in perfect diction,

But in the effort to be understood,

A beautiful, profound, and simple friction,

Of knowing that you’ve done the best you could.

An Odic Enumeration of the Abstruse and Subtractive

(1)

From the crepuscule of cognition's dawn,

An autodidact’s logopoeia spawns,

A phatic utterance, a glottal plea,

From the inchoate vastness of the me.

A lexiphanic dream, a verbal art,

A palimpsest of passions, rent apart.

(2)

The noumenal abyss, a psychic chasm,

Elicits from my lips a verbal spasm,

A periphrastic circuit, to convey

The quotidian truths that hold sway.

In this solipsistic, mental demesne,

I limn a language, singular and keen.

(3)

My thoughts, a peregrination, circuitous and slow,

Through the anfractuous paths where meanings grow.

A sesquipedalian stream, a voluble tide,

Where words like omphaloskeptics reside.

My cerebration, a tortuous gyre,

Fueling a logodaedaly's pyre.

(4)

The garrulous ghosts of bygone years arise,

Their logorrhea echoing to the skies.

A cacophony of lost, laconic themes,

A verbal catachresis of my dreams.

A diaphanous veil, a verbal gauze,

Distorts the essence, and ignores the cause.

(5)

A polyglot of passions, I confess,

A logophile, a lover of excess.

My philodoxic heart, a vibrant drum,

Beats for the words that render senses numb.

A ratiocination, arcane and vast,

A mental effluvium, from my mind cast.

(6)

The epistolary world, a faded trace,

A chirographic memory, out of place.

My epizeuxis heart, a staccato beat,

Repeats the past, a bitter-dulcet treat.

A panegyric eulogy, a fervent verse,

A hagiographic vision, I rehearse.

(7)

The etymonic roots, a tangled skein,

A lexicographical, abstruse domain.

A chrematistic greed, for words unsaid,

A bibliophagous hunger, in my head.

A philological fervor, unassuaged,

My verbal cravings, ravenously engaged.

(8)

The paraleptic shadows, flit and flee,

A prosopopoeia, for all to see.

The metonymic soul, a synecdoche,

A part of everything, yet naught to be.

My hypallage, a verbal paradox,

A mind that spins, a life that runs like clocks.

(9)

A hermeneutic journey, to unwind,

The knotty-gnarled intentions of the mind.

A sybaritic love, for phrases lush,

A mellifluous cascade, a verbal rush.

My eisegesis, a subjective plea,

To find myself in every word I see.

(10)

A peripeteia, in my verbal dance,

A reversal of fortune, a fleeting chance.

The apothegmatic truth, a bitter pill,

A laconic wisdom, I cannot distill.

An antanaclasis, a play on words,

My psyche's paronomasia, now heard.

(11)

A hendiadys of hope, a coupled dream,

A tmesis, with a truth-interrupted stream.

A zeugma of my love and my despair,

A rhetorical figure, beyond compare.

A chiasmus, a poetic, criss-cross way,

To invert the thoughts, and seize the day.

(12)

A polyptoton of the human heart,

A play on kindred words, a verbal art.

An apostrophic prayer, to things unseen,

A deictic gesture, in a mental scene.

A prolepsis of the ending, told too soon,

A verbal foresight, beneath a silver moon.

(13)

A litotes of my sorrow, minimized,

A verbal understatement, thinly veiled.

An asyndeton of thoughts, in rapid fire,

A verbal avalanche, a mental pyre.

A polysyndeton of joy, a rich expanse,

A verbal abundance, a second chance.

(14)

An anastrophe, a twisted, verbal track,

A syntactical reversion, to come back.

An isocolon of parallel design,

A balanced structure, where the verses twine.

A pleonasm of my feelings, said twice o'er,

A verbal surplus, and so much more.

(15)

An epanalepsis of the words I've said,

A repetition at the start and end.

An anadiplosis, a verbal chain,

A linking of the lines, like falling rain.

An epiphora, the ending word repeats,

My verbal rhythm, with its measured beats.

(16)

A mesodiplosis, a word in the middle,

Repeated, to untangle every riddle.

A symploce of repetition, twin in might,

A verbal symphony, both dark and bright.

A palilogy of meaning, said again,

To emphasize the passion and the pain.

(17)

A ploce of the simple, humble word,

A polysemous echo, clearly heard.

A diacope, a close-repeated grace,

A verbal stuttering, in time and space.

A tapinosis of the soul's low state,

A verbal belittling, a cruel fate.

(18)

A catachresis of the verbal form,

A metaphoric tempest, and a storm.

An anthimeria of my heart's deep plea,

A function-shifting word, a part of me.

A neologism of a thought new-born,

A verbal sunrise, on a misty morn.

(19)

A malapropism of a mind unglued,

A verbal blunder, often misconstrued.

An aptronymic fate, a name that fits,

A verbal truth, in fleeting, conscious bits.

A spoonerism of my verbal strife,

A transposed sound, a different, inner life.

(20)

A portmanteau of meanings, intertwined,

A verbal fusion, of a twisted kind.

An onomatopoeia of the soul's deep ache,

A vocal mimicry, for goodness sake.

A cacography of thoughts, a spelling flaw,

A verbal trespass, against grammar's law.

(21)

A sesquipedalian song, a lengthy hymn,

A verbal marathon, on the wind's whim.

A supervacaneous thought, a verbal spare,

A useless word, and yet I put it there.

A circumlocution of a simple truth,

A verbal roundabout, a fading youth.

(22)

A hyperbole of feelings, overblown,

A verbal exaggeration, widely known.

A meiosis of my courage, and my might,

A verbal understatement, in the light.

A paronomasia, a punning grace,

A verbal wordplay, in this tangled place.

(23)

A syllepsis of my heart and of my hand,

A verbal link, I cannot understand.

An aposiopesis, a sudden stop,

A verbal silence, from the very top.

A paralipsis of the things I'll skip,

A verbal emphasis, upon my lip.

(24)

A praeteritio, a passing over thought,

A verbal emphasis, for things not sought.

An asterisk of silence, on the page,

A verbal omission, from a mental stage.

An ellipsis of the moments, left unsaid,

A verbal skipping, from the heart and head.

(25)

A parenthesis of thought, inside the flow,

A verbal interjection, you should know.

A bathos of emotions, all too deep,

A sentimental verbal, sudden leap.

A pathos of the soul, a mournful sound,

A verbal empathy, on hallowed ground.

(26)

An ethos of the speaker, in each line,

A verbal character, that's truly mine.

A logos of the logic, in the rhyme,

A verbal reasoning, that conquers time.

A rhetorical question, with no reply,

A verbal query, at the passing sky.

(27)

A hypophora of questions, then the answer,

A verbal interplay, a mental dancer.

A procatalepsis of the counter-thought,

A verbal refutation, dearly bought.

An antithesis of opposites, in pair,

A verbal contrast, for all who care.

(29)

An anaphora of hope, repeated, vast,

A verbal rhythm, that forever last.

An epistrophe of endings, all the same,

A verbal sameness, and a common name.

A symploce of hope, at start and end,

A verbal pattern, and a loyal friend.

(30)

An epanalepsis of the fading light,

A verbal repetition, day and night.

An anadiplosis of the dying sun,

A verbal chain, a race that has been run.

An epiphora of the closing door,

A verbal ending, and so much more.

(31)

An acrolectal vision, high and grand,

A verbal mastery, in my own hand.

A basilectal whisper, low and deep,

A verbal secret, that I'll ever keep.

A mesolectal language, in between,

A verbal balance, a forgotten scene.

(32)

A crepuscular feeling, at the day's end,

A verbal melancholy, to transcend.

A petrichoral scent, of fallen rain,

A verbal fragrance, to ease the pain.

An apricity of sun, a winter's grace,

A verbal warmth, in this cold, empty space.

(33)

A metanoia of the mind, a change of heart,

A verbal turning, at a brand-new start.

An antimetabole of words, a-cross,

A verbal reversal, and a total loss.

An epizeuxis of the words I love,

A verbal emphasis, from up above.

(34)

A logomachy of feelings, wordy fight,

A verbal conflict, day and endless night.

A glossolalia of a foreign tongue,

A verbal ecstasy, for songs unsung.

A prosopolepsis of the first-seen glance,

A verbal prejudice, a final chance.

(35)

An apophasis of what I will not say,

A verbal mention, in a cryptic way.

An aporia of doubt, a verbal pause,

A mental questioning, for every cause.

A tapinosis of the petty fear,

A verbal dwindling, year by fleeting year.

(36)

A rhetorical pause, a verbal break,

A mental moment, for my own dear sake.

A procatalepsis of the coming grief,

A verbal foresight, a small, sad relief.

An enallage of meaning, swapped around,

A verbal substitution, on the ground.

(37)

A synchysis of words, a jumbled mess,

A verbal intertwining, with distress.

An anastrophe of what I mean to tell,

A verbal twist, a whispered, silent spell.

A zeugma of the moments, near and far,

A verbal pairing, like a distant star.

(38)

A hendiadys of feeling, love and hope,

A verbal pairing, and a fragile rope.

A tmesis of my heart, a verbal split,

A mental separation, and a bitter fit.

An isocolon of the things I knew,

A verbal balance, for me and you.

(39)

A pleonasm of the truth, a verbal surplus,

A mental over-telling, to discuss.

An asyndeton of tears, and fears, and pain,

A verbal rush, like unrelenting rain.

A polysyndeton of hope, a verbal chain,

A mental building, once again.

(40)

A litotes of the joy, the silent bliss,

A verbal minimization, like a kiss.

A hyperbole of sadness, overblown,

A verbal mountain, from a single stone.

A meiosis of the strength, I still possess,

A verbal lessening, in my distress.

(41)

An oxymoron of the quiet shout,

A verbal paradox, and mental doubt.

A paradox of life, a living death,

A verbal mystery, a final breath.

A chiasmus of the moments, day and night,

A verbal criss-cross, and a fading light.

(42)

An anaphora of dreams, a verbal quest,

A mental starting, and a final test.

An epistrophe of waking, all the same,

A verbal repetition, and a game.

A symploce of the ending, and the start,

A verbal pattern, in my weary heart.

(43)

An epanalepsis of the words I need,

A verbal repetition, for a final creed.

An anadiplosis of the bitter past,

A verbal chain, a shadow that is cast.

An epiphora of the final, verbal sound,

A mental ending, on this hallowed ground.

(45)

A ploce of the simple, fading word,

A verbal echo, finally heard.

A diacope of feeling, sad and deep,

A verbal stuttering, while I'm asleep.

A tapinosis of the soul's slow burn,

A verbal dwindling, a lesson to unlearn.

(46)

A catachresis of the mind's intent,

A verbal metaphor, a purpose spent.

An anthimeria of the words I crave,

A verbal turning, a life I can save.

A neologism of the new-found thought,

A verbal future, that I've finally caught.

(47)

A malapropism of the weary mind,

A verbal blunder, of a broken kind.

An aptronymic life, a fitting end,

A verbal finish, and a loyal friend.

A spoonerism of the whispered fears,

A verbal turning, through the passing years.

(48)

A portmanteau of moments, new and old,

A verbal fusion, and a story told.

An onomatopoeia of the beating heart,

A verbal mimicry, a brand-new start.

A cacography of endings, misspelled and wrong,

A verbal trespass, in a painful song.

(49)

A sesquipedalian journey, to the end,

A verbal epic, for my only friend.

A supervacaneous moment, now and then,

A verbal surplus, for this verbal pen.

A circumlocution of the final truth,

A verbal wandering, for my lost youth.

(50)

The fifty stanzas, now complete and done,

A verbal marathon, beneath the sun.

A logophile's creation, vast and deep,

A verbal promise, that my soul will keep.

The noetic torrent, now has found its way,

The autodidact's language, here to stay.

(28)

An oxymoron of a bittersweet embrace,

A verbal paradox, in time and space.

A paradox of meaning, truth-untrue,

A verbal puzzle, for me and you.

A chiasmus of my purpose and my past,

A verbal criss-cross, forever cast.

(44)

A mesodiplosis of the middle way,

A verbal repetition, come what may.

A symploce of the hope, the rising sun,

A verbal pattern, when the day is done.

A palilogy of meaning, said again,

A verbal emphasis, to ease the pain.

Echolalia At The Orphic Hour.(EP)

  Echolalia at the Orphic Hour

The plangent susurrus of the demilune,

a chthonic grimoire upon the glade,

where hypogeal currents hum a silent rune,

and eidetic specters waltz unafraid.

A concatenation of auric sighs,

transmuting stasis into ambergris,

before the prothalamion of the skies

consummates its apocryphal bliss.

The limbic strata, a palimpsest of dread,

where paramnesia paints the cicatrice,

and an anachronistic dirge is said

for a synecdoche of an obsequious peace.

A phosphenic echo, a seraphic pang,

dissolves the isochronous façade,

while from the chancel, the tautologic clang

of vesper bells betrays the masquerade

A grimoire's glossolalia, darkly penned,

in omphalic cyphers of the deep,

where psychic caesuras bend,

and somnolent chimeras sleep.

The phatic murmur of a carious bone,

a rusticated relic, still and grim,

a hierophant's apocryphal moan,

on the littoral edge of a vesper's whim.

An atavistic echo, a synclastic cry,

a palimpsest of sorrow, finely wrought,

beneath a crepuscular and jaded sky,

where numinous ephemera are caught.

The hypogeal rivers, cold and slow,

carry the susurrus of a feral dream,

where metanoia whispers come and go,

within the rheum of a limbic stream.

A concatenation of monadic pain,

a thaumaturge's cryptic, silent plea,

a paramnesia in the winter rain,

for what was and what cannot ever be.

The chthonic threnody, a soundless wail,

a sciolist's presumption, thin and weak,

a nacreous, translucent, spectral veil,

across the prothalamion of the meek.

A peripatetic shadow, wan and gaunt,

a stygian, oubliette of forgotten things,

the eidolon of a remembered haunt,

where a dyslogistic requiem sings.

The lacustrine lament of a quiet heart,

the sclerotic murmur of a fading hope,

a cosmic elegy ripped apart,

with a tautologic and constricting rope.

A phosphenic flicker in the mind's dark eye,

the isochronous clanging of a bell,

a synecdoche of a forgotten "why,"

a dysphasic fable of heaven and hell.

The seraphic pang of a celestial doubt,

a malapropism whispered in the dark,

a querulous, rhetorical shout,

from the hypostatic embers of a spark.

A heuristic vision, dim and incomplete,

the obfuscated meaning of a myth,

the halcyon days, both sour and sweet,

before the soul was severed from the pith.

A neoteric sorrow, newly born,

a purblind impulse, a benighted way,

the asyndetic promise of a morn,

that will never break to a full day.

The sesquipedalian weight of heavy years,

the plangent, wistful hum of what is lost,

the apophatic genesis of fears,

the paralogistic calculus of cost.

An heuristic shadow in the gloaming's haze,

the eschatological and final gleam,

the anachronistic maze of winding days,

the katabatic fall into a dream.

A noetic terror, cold and absolute,

a patulous silence, deeply felt,

the paronomastic seed of bitter fruit,

the anagnorisis that was never spelt.

A micturating ghost in a hollowed room,

a liminal passage, a forgotten door,

the proleptic terror of a certain doom,

the anamnestic echo of what came before.

The obfuscatory smoke of a burning thought,

the soporific cadence of a lie,

the periphrastic meaning newly caught,

in the diaphanous tears of a weeping eye.

The hermeneutic darkness, deep and vast,

a peripatetic soul, a wandering sight,

the eschatological and final cast,

before the closing of the endless night.

A synchronic vision, brief and profound,

a solipsistic whisper, soft and low,

on the catabatic and falling ground,

where the eidetic currents softly flow.

A paralogistic reason, bent and old,

the antinomian impulse of a soul,

the epiphanic story, seldom told,

to make the shattered pieces whole.

A preterite promise, faded and worn,

a kenotic emptying of all that's real,

a phaneroscopic vision newly born,

a synesthetic wound that cannot heal.

The sesquipedalian terror of the void,

the chimerical promise, softly sung,

a malapropistic comfort, now destroyed,

the dysphasic story, from which grief is sprung.

An hegemonic silence, all consuming,

a tautologic truth that turns to ash,

the apophatic, fragile, sweet perfuming,

the hypostatic, swift and final crash.

The hypogeal roots of a forgotten tree,

a limbic echo from a sunken past,

the querulous, atavistic memory,

the paralogistic die is finally cast.

A nosological obsession, grim and dark,

a katabatic fall from all that's right,

the isochronous, cold and single spark,

that lights the darkness of a lonely night.

A paramnesic whisper, soft and deep,

the obfuscated meaning of a tear,

the eidetic promise that we try to keep,

the anagnorisis of a waking fear.

The prosopopoeia of a hollowed name,

a nacreous, translucent, spectral thing,

the dysphasic telling of a burning flame,

the apocryphal song a vesper's wing.

A neoteric sorrow, born of fractured space,

the purblind impulse, stumbling in the haze,

the isochronous terror of a single place,

the anamnestic ghost of ancient days.

The synecdoche of a broken, fleeting glance,

the epiphanic sorrow of a mind,

a heuristic, momentary, fleeting dance,

the antinomian chaos left behind.

The querulous, rhetorical and final plea,

the chimerical desire, thin and small,

a halcyon, sweet and painful memory,

a cosmic elegy that holds us all.

A dyslogistic chant, a litany of blame,

the soporific comfort, soft and low,

the phosphenic terror of a fading name,

the peripatetic spirit, come and go.

An obfuscatory smoke, a rising cloud,

the sclerotic murmur of a fading vow,

a monadic, lonely, and silent crowd,

the anachronistic meaning of a "now."

The micturating ghosts of a forgotten pain,

the concatenated feeling, sharp and new,

a plangent susurrus in the quiet rain,

the paralogistic promise, false and true.

The noetic terror, cold and absolute,

a tautologic truth that comes undone,

the patulous, silent, and bitter root,

the hypostatic ending, newly spun.

A solipsistic whisper, just for me,

the esoteric shadow of a loss,

the atavistic, fleeting memory,

the paralogistic, final, heavy cross.

The isochronous terror, sharp and bright,

the anamnestic echo of a fallen dream,

the querulous and endless, lonely night,

the katabatic journey on a fading stream.

The proleptic terror of a certain end,

the antinomian impulse of the heart,

a heuristic promise, a broken friend,

the eschatological and final part.

The sesquipedalian weight of heavy dread,

a chthonic grimoire opened in the dark,

a phaneroscopic vision from the dead,

the somnolent, and final, silent mark.

The obfuscated meaning of a sacred text,

a lacustrine lament of things undone,

the neoteric future, what comes next,

the preterite promise of a dying sun.

A peripatetic echo, dimly heard,

the sclerotic hope of a fading sound,

the paralogistic, final spoken word,

on the hypogeal and falling ground.

The dysphasic story, hard to understand,

the atavistic impulse, strong and old,

the querulous, and cold, and empty hand,

the prothalamion of a story untold.

A concatenated meaning, come and gone,

the periphrastic promise, thin and weak,

the monadic feeling, all alone,

the apocryphal silence of the meek.

The malapropistic comfort, softly found,

the esoteric hope, a single sign,

the chimerical terror, all around,

the hypostatic breaking of the line.

A querulous, rhetorical and fading light,

the paralogistic terror of the end,

the phosphenic flicker in the deepest night,

the anagnorisis, broken and unbent.

The isochronous clanging of a memory,

the anamnestic whisper, soft and slow,

the antinomian, wild and endless sea,

the katabatic feeling, come and go.

The preterite promise, lost within the mist,

the eschatological and final form,

the kenotic ending, never to be kissed,

the phaneroscopic silence of the storm.

The dyslogistic chant of heavy loss,

the soporific dream, both false and true,

the hypostatic, heavy, gilded cross,

the noetic, painful, and eternal hue.

The solipsistic terror of a fading dream,

the obfuscatory shadow, thick and deep,

the monadic vision on a frozen stream,

the sesquipedalian secrets that we keep.

A peripatetic meaning, lost to all,

the antinomian impulse, rising fast,

the paralogistic, endless, empty call,

the atavistic future, from the past.

The dysphasic promise, never to be heard,

the querulous, final and pathetic sight,

the concatenated meaning of a spoken word,

the esoteric darkness of the coming night.

The Penumbra 's Pedantic Reign.(E.P.)

The Penumbra's Pedantic Reign

It is based on the them of initial decay theft and finally apotheosis 

The crepuscular penumbra clings, a miasmatic shroud,

To where the phantasmagoria of former day was bowed.

A cataclysmic torpor, a relentless, somnolent haze,

Envelops the diurnal, in its labyrinthine, sullen maze.

The anhedonic specter, a nihilistic ghost,

Has rendered the eupeptic soul a petrifying host.

This metempsychotic journey, a Sisyphean reprise,

Perambulates a solipsistic cosmos in its eyes.

From chthonic depths, a polyglot of susurrant despair,

Emanates a jeremiad on the maleficent air.

A canorous and sybaritic world, now fallow and grotesque,

Its gilded, aureate memories, a funereal arabesque.

The liminal demarcation, a gossamer-thin divide,

Is breached by an inimical and eidetic tide.

A phthisic rhetoric, of pleonastic, vapid sound,

Pervades the echolalia of this sanctimonious ground.

The hierophant of silence, a taciturn facade,

Obfuscates the provenance of this tenebrous charade.

The obdurate refusal, a truculent non-compliance,

Is the sole, indomitable and recalcitrant appliance.

A surreptitious murmur, a clandestine dissent,

The nascent insurrection of a spirit fiercely rent.

The antediluvian pathos of a chimerical decree,

Is shattered by a nascent, insurgent rhapsody.

The apotheosis beckons, a fulgurant egress,

From the jejune and pedantic, this lexical duress.

The eschatological fervor, a phosphene of release,

Transcends the ephemerality, and cultivates its peace.

For when the lexicon of woe, so copious and immense,

Is vanquished by the logos of a fervent, new defense,

The anamnestic echoes of a nascent, hopeful plea,

Will rend the miasmatic gloom and set the spirit free.

Stanza 6

The exiguous reprieve, a nugatory phase,

Is swallowed by the hecatombs of unremembered days.

The sciolistic chatter, a pharisaical cant,

Precludes the veridical, and celebrates the rant.

A heuristic paradigm, with sophistical design,

Inveigles the credulity of a puerile, frail confine.

The meretricious bauble, a gaudy, venal show,

Is all the epiphanic solace they are ever to know.

Stanza 7

A syzygy of silence, a taciturn accord,

Unveils the anomie of a world that is deplored.

A hermetic conviction, a recondite belief,

Abates the febrile angst and the insensate grief.

The palimpsestic mem'ry, a scribbled, faint memoir,

Is buried 'neath the strata of a laconic repertoire.

This ossified existence, a petrified display,

Is just a protoplastic, and primordial decay.

Stanza 8

A fatuous declamation, a specious, vain pretense,

Abjures the perspicacity of a more profound defense.

The quotidian malaise, a torpid, common curse,

Is nurtured by the malady of a perverted verse.

The esurient ambition, a voracious, carnal lust,

Is but a vapid monument built of corroded dust.

The prolix dissertation, a turgid, stultifying drone,

Is a eulogistic anthem for a mind of hardened stone.

Stanza 9

The iconoclastic fury, a schismatic, primal urge,

Attempts to find a solace in the supplicative dirge.

The apopemptic sadness, a fond farewell to light,

Envelops the solstitial essence of the starless night.

A paronomastic play on a sanguinary theme,

Subverts the euphonious, and cultivates a scream.

The phrenetic exegesis of a theological dread,

Is what the hermeneutic, pontifical have said.

Stanza 10

The chthonian effluvia, a foul and fetid miasma,

Is the fetichistic worship of an ideological chasm.

The rebarbative aesthetic, a harsh and grating art,

Is just the catachrestic tearing of a sentient, yearning heart.

The numinous effulgence, a spiritual, bright gleam,

Is just a fatamorgana in this subterranean stream.

A dysphemistic comment on a sacrosanct ideal,

Is what the cynical consider to be honest, and to be real.

Stanza 5

The chicanery of sunlight, a specious, gilded grace,

Is but a simulacrum of a more pellucid space.

The fuliginous umbrage, a clandestine embrace,

Defines the somniferous, lethargic human race.

An inchoate dysphoria, a tenebrific plight,

Absorbs the faintest glimmer of an evanescent light.

A cimmerian prognosis, a vaticinal dread,

Propels the atavistic impulse from the undead

Stanza 51

The heuristic algorithm, a cold and callous creed,

Is the algorithmic certainty of a synthetic seed.

The esurient consumption, a craving, endless lust,

Is the effluvial outpouring of a soul turned into dust.

The chrysaline condition, a nascent, fragile pause,

Is but the metamorphic stasis for the overarching laws.

The philodoxical echo, a hollow, vapid claim,

Is the mimetic murmur of a self-consuming flame.

Stanza 52

The exegetic parsing, a scholastic, cold review,

Is the hermeneutical breakdown of a soul that once was new.

The dysphemistic canticle, a foul and cursing song,

Is the lyrical expression of a rancorous, bitter wrong.

The periphrastic syntax, a roundabout design,

Is the obfuscatory language on a rhetorical line.

The aposiopetic silence, a sudden, fractured stop,

Is the abrupt cessation of a verbal, tedious flop.

Stanza 53

The panegyric chorus, a fulsome, fawning praise,

Is the sycophantic anthem of these vapid, shallow days.

The fatamorganic vision, a shimmering, false mirage,

Is the ideological warfare of a philosophical barrage.

The syncretistic fusion, a melding of the creeds,

Is the intellectual feeding of a parasitic, empty deeds.

The autochthonic spirit, a native, primordial heart,

Is the entombed lamentation of a world torn apart.

Stanza 54

The atavistic terror, a primal, ancient dread,

Is the archetypal shadow of a long-forgotten dead.

The apodictic reasoning, a certainty unsaid,

Is the syllogistic framework for a truth that's long since fled.

The pleonastic surplus, a surfeit of the sound,

Is the echolalic excess on this desecrated ground.

The cataleptic stillness, a rigid, frozen state,

Is the neurological surrender to an unescapable fate.

Stanza 55

The neoteric glamour, a fashionable, new guise,

Is the temporal distraction from a culture's slow demise.

The exscindition of the joy, a surgical, cruel cut,

Is the psychological outcome of a spiritual, deep rut.

The epiphenomenal, a ghostly, faint effect,

Is the superficial shimmer that the noumenal project.

The dyslogistic comment, a pejorative, cruel remark,

Is the acidic judgment uttered in the intellectual dark.

Stanza 56

The enantiodromic turn, a moment of sharp grace,

Is the dialectical turning in this desolate, barren space.

The logorrheic torrent, a garrulous, verbose flood,

Is the linguistic camouflage for a deeper, psychic blood.

The metempsychotic promise, a cycle of the soul,

Is the ethereal fiction that can never make us whole.

The apophatic void, a language of the unknown,

Is the spiritual surrender of a soul that stands alone.

Stanza 57

The hylomorphic essence, a form in matter bound,

Is the philosophical mystery on this haunted ground.

The epistemological rift, a chasm in the thought,

Is the cognitive splinter from the battles that were fought.

The eudaemonic fiction, a narrative of false glee,

Is the analgesic story for a spiritual malady.

The kakistocratic system, the rule of the worst and least,

Is the moral abomination of this political feast.

Stanza 58

The logodaedalic wordplay, a lexical, witty trick,

Is the rhetorical diversion from a conscience that is sick.

The aporia of the moment, an impasse, and a stop,

Is the existential breakdown of a philosophical flop.

The peripatetic sadness, a wandering, aimless ache,

Is the peregrinational torment for a purpose's final stake.

The anagnoristic shock, a sudden, brutal knowing,

Is the final, tragic moment when the truth begins to growing.

Stanza 59

The iconoclastic wrath, a schismatic, primal urge,

Is the anti-theological fervour of a liturgical dirge.

The canorous effulgence, a resonant, bright gleam,

Is the euphonious echo of a long-lost, silent scream.

The chthonic effusion, a guttural, deep sound,

Is the subterranean murmuring in the consecrated ground.

The plethoric verbosity, a surfeit of the form,

Is the lexical tempest in a linguistic, raging storm.

Stanza 60

The euphemistic phrasing, a gentle, mild veneer,

Is the semantic disguise for a more profound and chilling fear.

The adumbrative gesture, a foreshadowing, subtle sign,

Is the prognostic whisper on a divinatory line.

The epistolary message, a letter in a hand,

Is the forgotten missive in a long-forgotten land.

The hecatombs of silence, a sacrifice of thought,

Is the epistemological bargain that the weary have bought.

Stanza 61

The panoptic illusion, a constant, watchful eye,

Is the dystopian narrative beneath a simulated sky.

The meretricious glitter, a gaudy, venal show,

Is the aesthetic illusion for a spiritual low.

The fulminous diatribe, an explosive, bitter rant,

Is the ideological sermon of a resentful, hostile plant.

The otiose reflection, a pointless, vain display,

Is the narcissistic mirror for a monochromatic day.

Stanza 62

The prosopopoeic voice, a figure of the speech,

Is the theatrical utterance that the demagogue will preach.

The metonymic fragment, a part that stands for whole,

Is the synecdochic cipher for a disembodied soul.

The philistinic judgment, a coarse and brutish sneer,

Is the uneducated chorus for a universal fear.

The logocentric dogma, a text-based, certain rule,

Is the theological prison for a hermeneutical fool.

Stanza 63

The antinomian impulse, a lawless, wayward will,

Is the nihilistic purpose in a metaphysical chill.

The exiguous reprieve, a meager, fleeting peace,

Is the nugatory solace when the existential worries cease.

The apodictic knowledge, a certainty so deep,

Is the teleological promise that the fervent soul will keep.

The obfuscatory logic, a recondite defense,

Is the sophistical protection for a crass, venal expense.

Stanza 64

The fatuous conjecture, a baseless, empty claim,

Is the self-serving reasoning of a self-appointed name.

The prolix prevarication, a long, drawn-out deceit,

Is the linguistic avoidance of a tactical defeat.

The neoteric obsession, a love for shiny, new,

Is the temporal fixation for a mind that isn't true.

The eschatological ending, a final, grim decree,

Is the apocalyptic promise of a spirit's final fee.

Stanza 65

The palimpsestic mem'ry, a scribbled, faint memoir,

Is the anamnesic echo of a long-forgotten war.

The periphrastic evasion, a circumlocutory trick,

Is the rhetorical dodging of a moral, spiritual stick.

The catachrestic metaphor, a twisted, forced expression,

Is the aesthetic discord of a profound, cold oppression.

The enantiodromic turning, the sudden, hopeful grace,

Is the dialectical reversal in this bleak and desolate place.

Stanza 66

The dysphasic babble, a broken, fractured speech,

Is the incoherent language of a soul that's out of reach.

The hylomorphic substance, a form and matter fused,

Is the ontological paradox that has long been misconstrued.

The syncretistic morass, a blending of the lies,

Is the mythological narrative of a world that slowly dies.

The philodoxical posture, a love for vain debate,

Is the intellectual pretense of a mind that's sealed by fate.

Stanza 67

The exordium of the sorrow, a preamble to the pain,

Is the introductory promise of a slowly falling rain.

The apophatic discourse, a language of the no,

Is the ineffable substance where the spiritual embers glow.

The metempsychotic promise, a cycle of the light,

Is the reincarnating whisper in the darkness of the night.

The heuristic axiom, a rule-of-thumb decree,

Is the intellectual shortcut for a mind that's not yet free.

Stanza 68

The anamnesic echoes, a memory brought to life,

Is the re-emerging knowledge in this ideological strife.

The apodictic truth, a certainty so clear,

Is the teleological promise for a world that's filled with fear.

The plethoric excess, a surfeit of the form,

Is the linguistic burden of a devastating, endless storm.

The otiose indulgence, a pointless, vain delight,

Is the decadent distraction from a deeply-seated, spiritual blight.

Stanza 69

The exscindition of the spirit, a severance of the soul,

Is the final, brutal action to make the shattered whole.

The epistemic fissure, a fracture in the thought,

Is the foundational problem that the ancient sophists fought.

The peripatetic journey, a wandering, aimless path,

Is the peregrinational wandering in a spiritual aftermath.

The cataleptic fugue, a rigid, frozen trance,

Is the neurological surrender to a circumstantial dance.

Stanza 70

The neoteric innovation, a brand-new, polished lie,

Is the fashionable distraction in the face of the empty sky.

The dyslogistic condemnation, a bitter, mean attack,

Is the vicious, venomous weapon from a soul that's on the rack.

The logorrheic babble, a ceaseless, verbal flow,

Is the ideological cover for a truth that's not to know.

The antinomian fervor, a lawless, angry creed,

Is the rebellious fire of a soul that needs to be freed.

Stanza 71

The eudaemonic solace, a fictional, sweet peace,

Is the analgesic promise when the psychic worries cease.

The kakistocratic farce, the rule of the worst of all,

Is the dystopian drama in a crumbling, ancient hall.

The philistinic chorus, a vulgar, noisy crowd,

Is the aesthetic protest of a spirit, crushed and bowed.

The syncretistic shambles, a melding of the trash,

Is the intellectual landfill of a spiritual, final crash.

Stanza 72

The exegetical torture, a painful, textual pry,

Is the hermeneutical effort to explain a cosmic lie.

The panegyric drivel, a fulsome, fawning ode,

Is the sycophantic traffic on a long, dystopian road.

The fatamorganic hope, a tantalizing, false mirage,

Is the psychological torment of a self-inflicted barrage.

The autochthonic memory, a deeply rooted plea,

Is the ancestral sadness for a life that could not be.

Stanza 73

The atavistic urge, a primitive, ancient pull,

Is the unconscious yearning of a soul that's no longer full.

The apodictic structure, a logical, cold frame,

Is the syllogistic prison for a mind that's lost its name.

The pleonastic padding, a needless, empty fluff,

Is the stylistic wreckage of a story that's had enough.

The hecatombs of sacrifice, a burning of the thought,

Is the epistemological cost for the battles that were fought.

Stanza 74

The periphrastic maze, a long and winding text,

Is the rhetorical labyrinth where the soul is long perplexed.

The epistemic void, a chasm in the mind,

Is the cognitive darkness that is left so far behind.

The dysphemistic outburst, a vulgar, angry sound,

Is the unfiltered emotion on this desolate, barren ground.

The anamnesic vision, a memory brought to view,

Is the sudden, clear remembrance of a promise that was true.

Stanza 75

The hylomorphic union, a spirit and a form,

Is the metaphysical essence that withstands the endless storm.

The logodaedalic beauty, a lexical, witty art,

Is the creative expression of a resurrected heart.

The apophatic grace, a language of the not,

Is the ineffable knowledge of a soul that's not forgot.

The enantiodromic shift, a turning towards the light,

Is the final, fulminous vanquishing of the interminable night.

Stanza 76

The apotheosis rises, a fulgurant egress,

From the jejune and pedantic, this lexical duress.

The eschatological fervor, a phosphene of release,

Transcends the ephemerality, and cultivates its peace.

For when the lexicon of woe, so copious and immense,

Is vanquished by the logos of a fervent, new defense,

The anamnestic echoes of a nascent, hopeful plea,

Will rend the miasmatic gloom and set the spirit free.

Stanza 77

The cacophonous clamor, a harsh, discordant sound,

Is the lingering echo on this liberated ground.

The catachrestic tension, a metaphoric, brutal strain,

Is the aesthetic legacy of a long-forgotten pain.

The prosopopoeic echo, a lingering, borrowed voice,

Is the rhetorical ghost of a manipulated choice.

The philistinic silence, a vulgar, boorish quiet,

Is the absence of the spirit in a long-extinguished riot.

Stanza 78

The neoteric shimmer, a final, fading sheen,

Is the temporal afterglow of what once was a new scene.

The exscindition of the past, a cutting of the ties,

Is the surgical separation from the bitter, twisted lies.

The peripatetic walking, a journey with a goal,

Is the peregrinational progress of a finally mended soul.

The apodictic freedom, a certainty so deep,

Is the ontological grounding that a liberated spirit will keep.

Stanza 79

The dyslogistic shadow, a final, pejorative trace,

Is the residual negativity in this now-unburdened space.

The logorrheic stillness, a cessation of the drone,

Is the silence that follows when the verbal chaos is gone.

The metempsychotic conclusion, a cycle finally done,

Is the permanent arrival underneath a newborn sun.

The antinomian surrender, a peaceful, humble creed,

Is the final, silent planting of a newly planted seed.

Stanza 80

The eudaemonic blossoming, a genuine, true delight,

Is the real happiness growing from the vanquished, pedantic night.

The kakistocratic memory, a distant, foolish reign,

Is the historical lesson of a long-forgotten pain.

The philistinic apathy, a lack of understanding,

Is the intellectual quiet after a creative, bright landing.

The syncretistic chaos, a muddled, faded form,

Is the final, quiet wreckage of a long-since-vanquished storm.

Stanza 81

The exegetical truth, a clear and honest read,

Is the hermeneutical understanding of a deeply-planted creed.

The panegyric silence, a cessation of the praise,

Is the humble quietude after the boisterous, empty days.

The fatamorganic vapor, a dissipated, empty lure,

Is the psychological residue of a life that is no more.

The autochthonic voice, a native, primal sound,

Is the authentic utterance from this finally hallowed ground.

Stanza 82

The atavistic calm, a peaceful, ancient hush,

Is the archetypal stillness of a spiritual, gentle rush.

The apodictic foundation, a ground of certain thought,

Is the bedrock of the knowledge that was ultimately bought.

The pleonastic quiet, an absence of the word,

Is the stylistic clarity of a finally-listening herd.

The hecatombs of peace, a sacrifice of strife,

Is the spiritual payment for a newly-found, and vibrant life.

Stanza 83

The periphrastic clarity, a straight and simple line,

Is the rhetorical triumph on a newly drawn design.

The epistemic light, a knowledge that is bright,

Is the cognitive victory after the unending night.

The dysphemistic shadow, a vanished, fleeting stain,

Is the lingering reminder of a long-gone, bitter pain.

The anamnesic grace, a memory 

An Undiluted Contumelious Contemplation(EP).

An Undiluted Contumelious Contemplation

The blogger ibikunle Abraham Laniyan also a poet in thus volume of moye than fifty stanzas delight the readers with poetry rich in dictions.

A cacophony of sesquipedalian strife,

The peripatetic march of metempirical life,

A supererogatory panoply unfurled,

On the insubordinate scaffold of the world.

With pulchritudinous phantasmagoria,

I contemplate a chthonic hypallage of yore,

An obfuscatory, contumelious spree,

Of verisimilitude's incongruity.

A lambent, synecdochic palimpsest of days,

Adumbrates a hermetic, anacrustic maze,

Where iconoclastic paradigms are flayed,

And an idiosyncratic paradigm is made.

An inchoate, apocryphal exordium,

For a plangent, lugubrious delirium,

A transcendental, preterlapsarian jest,

On the obdurate, unassailable quest.

A proleptic, anachronistic, otiose artifice,

The liminal, sclerotic, esoteric orifice,

Where quotidian epiphenomena conflate,

With an apotheosistic, arcane, and somber fate.

The irascible, impecunious demagogue,

A philoprogenitive, misanthropic monologue,

Speaks of an eschatological cataclysm,

With an exiguous, sanctimonious euphemism.

A subfusc, onomatopoeic threnody,

The susurrus of a dolorous rhapsody,

A mellifluous, yet soporific, cantillation,

Of a superlunary, nocturnal adoration.

VIII.

The obsequious, exigent, supercilious throng,

A heterodox, contrapuntal, anacreontic song,

They genuflect before a jejune, recondite creed,

Ignoring a stentorian, pleonastic deed.

With an aleatoric, serendipitous design,

A serendipitous, laconic, unpropitious sign,

The flummery of a garrulous, fatuous charlatan,

A diaphanous, egregious, pusillanimous artisan.

An abstruse, epistemological disquisition,

The antediluvian, pedantic, erudite tradition,

Expatiates on an extemporaneous deceit,

In a paralogistic, mendacious, and obsolete feat.

A stultifying, rebarbative malediction,

A meretricious, ineffable dereliction,

Of a concomitant, effulgent, and refulgent past,

That is sclerotic, obdurate, and bound to last.

An indefatigable, effervescent, and sublime,

A hypnagogic, diaphanous, and liminal time,

When somnambulistic somnolence prevails,

And an exiguous, crepuscular light fails.

An obfuscatory, ineluctable miasma,

The stygian, apocryphal, and spectral phantasma,

That circumvents a sclerotic, abstruse domain,

With an idiosyncratic, unpropitious, and jejune pain.

A lugubrious, phantasmagorical tableau,

An eschatological, chthonic, and stygian flow,

Of an immemorial, anachronistic, and arcane dread,

On the necropolis where the anacreontic dead are spread.

A prolix, circumlocutory discourse,

On the peripatetic, rebarbative course,

Of an effervescent, obfuscatory, and moribund fate,

That is inexorable, insubordinate, and beyond the gate.

An iconoclastic, verisimilitudinous plea,

On the transcendental, inexorable sea,

For a hypnagogic, anacrustic reprieve,

From the ineluctable, obfuscatory, and jejune to believe.

A supererogatory, supercilious display,

Of an antiquated, otiose, and anacrustic fray,

Where an apocryphal, esoteric, and inchoate creed,

Is a mellifluous, pusillanimous, and soporific need.

A somnambulistic, soporific, and crepuscular day,

An aleatoric, hypnagogic, and otiose ballet,

Where an indefatigable, preterlapsarian jest,

Is a lugubrious, ineffable, and somnambulant quest.

A philoprogenitive, mendacious, and fatuous gaze,

On the epistemological, enigmatic, and abstruse haze,

Of a meretricious, supererogatory, and obfuscatory life,

In an idiosyncratic, cacophonous, and somnolent strife.

A preterlapsarian, chthonic, and dolorous elegy,

On the rebarbative, impecunious, and ephemeral decree,

Of an anachronistic, sclerotic, and moribund world,

Where an eschatological, portentous fate is hurled.

A proleptic, anacrustic, and recondite dream,

On the interminable, soporific, and translucent stream,

Of a transcendental, serendipitous, and liminal flow,

Where a lugubrious, chthonic, and plangent echo grows.

A synecdochic, obfuscatory, and spectral trace,

On the ineluctable, indefatigable, and ubiquitous space,

Of an abstruse, epistemological, and esoteric maze,

Where a verisimilitudinous, hypnagogic, and apocryphal blaze.

A pusillanimous, supererogatory, and fatuous decree,

On the impecunious, obsequious, and jejune sea,

Of an idiosyncratic, pleonastic, and mellifluous rite,

In a somnambulant, recondite, and crepuscular night.

A circumlocutory, paralogistic, and ponderous quest,

On the obfuscatory, ineluctable, and rebarbative crest,

Of an arcane, supercilious, and proleptic tide,

Where an ephemeral, anacreontic, and somnolent fears hide.

A cacophonous, onomatopoeic, and otiose plea,

On the serendipitous, indefatigable, and liminal plea,

For a hypallage, anacrustic, and anachronistic relief,

From the jejune, obsequious, and contumelious grief.

An impecunious, fatuous, and jejune creed,

On the inexorable, supererogatory, and anacrustic deed,

Of an abstruse, epistemological, and esoteric rite,

In a mendacious, pusillanimous, and contumelious night.

A preterlapsarian, apocryphal, and obfuscatory plight,

On the chthonic, dolorous, and recondite night,

Of an eschatological, portentous, and rebarbative dread,

That is puerile, meretricious, and half-said.

A panoply of esoteric, arcane, and otiose lore,

On the inconsolable, ineluctable, and sclerotic shore,

Of a liminal, mellifluous, and superlunary sea,

Where an effulgent, diaphanous, and serendipitous decree.

A serendipitous, rebarbative, and pleonastic tale,

On the anachronistic, obfuscatory, and evanescent trail,

Of a meretricious, supererogatory, and cacophonous quest,

That is ephemeral, pusillanimous, and put to the sunder

An anacrustic, obfuscatory, and chthonic dirge,

On the interminable, hypnagogic, and liminal surge,

Of a preterlapsarian, apocryphal, and dolorous sound,

On the obdurate, jejune, and sanctimonious ground.

An anachronistic, otiose, and jejune affair,

On the esoteric, arcane, and sanctimonious air,

Of a supercilious, contumelious, and egregious rite,

In a lugubrious, anacreontic, and mendacious night.

An obfuscatory, ineluctable, and superlunary flight,

On the ephemeral, somnambulistic, and dolorous height,

Of a proleptic, apocryphal, and peregrinatory quest,

That is liminal, circumlocutory, and put to the test.

A peripatetic, puerile, and jejune lament,

On the mendacious, fatuous, and obfuscatory lament,

Of an idiosyncratic, heterodox, and cacophonous mind,

That is prolix, otiose, and left behind.

A stultifying, obfuscatory, and jejune discourse,

On the indefatigable, serendipitous, and anachronistic course,

Of a meretricious, supererogatory, and cacophonous thought,

That is transcendental, obsequious, and unsought.

An impecunious, contumelious, and jejune dirge,

On the obfuscatory, peregrinatory, and evanescent urge,

Of a puerile, anacreontic, and dolorous sound,

On the obdurate, jejune, and sanctimonious ground.

A serendipitous, rebarbative, and jejune plea,

On the obfuscatory, indefatigable, and evanescent plea,

For a hypallage, anacrustic, and anachronistic relief,

From the jejune, obsequious, and contumelious grief.

A nebulous, somnambulant, and arcane haze,

In a supercilious, paralogistic, and fatuous gaze,

Of a mendacious, supererogatory, and obfuscatory art,

That is lugubrious, ineffable, and stultifying part.

A chthonic, dolorous, and rebarbative decree,

On the ineluctable, interminable, and lugubrious sea,

Of an eschatological, portentous, and obfuscatory dread,

That is puerile, meretricious, and half-said.

A pulchritudinous, idiosyncratic, and rebarbative rite,

On the indefatigable, obfuscatory, and stultifying night,

Of a paralogistic, circumlocutory, and mendacious plea,

To the obsequious, contumelious, and jejune sea.

A mendacious, obfuscatory, and impecunious jest,

On the cacophonous, effulgent, and diaphanous quest,

Of a serendipitous, transcendent, and puerile past,

That is sclerotic, obdurate, and built to last.

A mellifluous, yet cacophonous soundscape,

The exiguous, effulgent, and effervescent landscape,

Of a pulchritudinous, yet rebarbative, domain,

Where a sanctimonious, pusillanimous fear remains.

A paralogistic, pleonastic, and contrapuntal tome,

On the transcendental, cacophonous, and somnolent home,

Of a meretricious, iconoclastic, and jejune thought,

That is indefatigable, obsequious, and unsought.

A contumelious, mendacious, and otiose harangue,

On the epiphenomenal, egregious, and arcane bang,

Of a philoprogenitive, supercilious, and fatuous whim,

That is circumlocutory, impecunious, and dim.

A peripatetic, egregious, and contrapuntal gait,

On the mendacious, pusillanimous, and fatuous state,

Of an otiose, anachronistic, and somnambulistic mind,

That is contumelious, rebarbative, and behind.

A somnolent, effervescent, and refulgent dawn,

On a chthonic, preterlapsarian, and pristine lawn,

Where a diaphanous, lambent, and pulchritudinous light,

Obfuscates the sclerotic, stygian, and obfuscatory night.

A heterodox, apocryphal, and spectral display,

On the epistemological, egregious, and mendacious way,

Of a verisimilitudinous, meretricious, and obfuscatory thought,

That is lugubrious, ineffable, and unsought.

A melancholic, somnambulistic, and melancholic song,

On the transcendental, indefatigable, and unending long,

For a preterlapsarian, obfuscatory, and jejune time,

Where a pulchritudinous, idiosyncratic, and rebarbative chime.

An indefatigable, obsequious, and jejune lament,

On the obfuscatory, peregrinatory, and evanescent lament,

Of an idiosyncratic, heterodox, and fatuous mind,

That is prolix, otiose, and left behind.

A pulchritudinous, idiosyncratic, and rebarbative art,

On the indefatigable, obfuscatory, and stultifying heart,

Of a paralogistic, circumlocutory, and mendacious plea,

To the obsequious, contumelious, and jejune sea.

A mendacious, obfuscatory, and impecunious dream,

On the cacophonous, effulgent, and diaphanous stream,

Of a serendipitous, transcendent, and puerile past,

That is sclerotic, obdurate, and built to last.

The Labyrinth

Hark and hail a petrifying ghost of monumental proportion broached by inimitable eidetic tide at canine of phthisis rhetorics

Pendantic sway swept across penumbra of crepuscular crepe 

Hung at the beckoning catacombs of cataclysmic torpor

Enveloped in labyrinth of somnolent haze Cast aboard turbulent perambulation of solipsistic cosmic drift

From the solitary confinement of a nihilistic apparition creeping at sullen maze of anhedonic specter

Beyond cthonic outrange of surrurant jeremiad and maleficent pounds

Drawing the canorous gilds of the aureate synergy limnal drill 

Of gossamer thin wafer crust arabesquely heft of truculent refrain 

Up for grasp the antediluvian charade of illicit pathosis 

At brawn with clandestine clappers of pedantic jejunes and nascent insurrection of fulgurites of fulgurant egress

Behold the numismatic nugatory and the sciolistic litters and unholistic jabbers of exiguous reprieve 

As sophistical warrant of petrified but ossified entity and a protoplastic specious species of fatuous declamation 

Adorned in the plummeted strata of laconic repertoire that betrays pullulative vision of the ossified existence.

The schismatic urge and thematic apperception of iconoclastic apoplexy 

Endears to the nature 's conscience in the critical nerve rending rendezvous 

To find the pacifying broth to bid adieu to the solistic essence to no avail 

The numismatic fatamorgana of the essurient yarns,cthonian effluence and supplicative dirge

Attempts to broker a softball stalemates betwixt this crusty gully of apparent odds

Bedecked by the sanguinary theme of the paranomasiac opera of broken waves.

Does the ephematic theological dread ever deny clinical conscience of euphonious subversion 

The hermeneutic pointifical waves of numinous effulgence somniferous phrenetic exegesis and rebarbative essence of inchoate dysphoria 

Hail the contours of ideological chasm as much endowed sacred stones of sunlight chicanery for the bright gleam.

Being nothing but a simulation and a simulacra of pellucid space in the time nicks of ebullient times.

Swapped for the callous creed of heuristic algorithm 

Of rewritten higglepiggledy of the exegetics scholastic review of philodoxical echo 

Much vaunted Molass of periphrastic syntax hellbent for metamorphic stasis 

Aplomb of the overachieving laze and overarching stumps 

The foul smelly cursive songs of dysphagiac, dysphoriac and dysphemistic canticles 

Submerged in the sour and dour of soulful effluvia outpourings

Pluck from the chrysaline horizon the fetish plunge of the irate doses

Nor dunked the evanescent light for the Cimmerian prognosis 

That hollow vapid claim of dissent mimicry and mimetic slurs 

Held on rampage in the fractious lieu of fractured fragments of aposiopesic shocks

The intellectual parasics in the mourning paradox of a philosophical urge 

Condenses allusions of metsphysical metaphors for the pleonastic surplus of the much maligned empty dread,

The syncretic melding and of the creeds and syllogistic shatters of collective thoughts

Obtains cataleptic surrender of neurological nuances and the consensus creeds at turbulent intervals 

Mutual confines across the metempsychosis of logorrheic torrents and enantiodromic tides 

Whereon the verbose flood of linguistic determinism 

Laying wreath for the synchondrosis and synchophantic pledges 

Of the pejorative blissful times catapulted from the sanddunes of desolate barren fields.

The epiphenomenality of neoteric brilliance across the ethereal consciousness

Of mortled history and exscindinction of glamorous belchs.

Who can quell the apoohatic void of the unspoken language ?

Billowing sacrifices of thoughts adoring the hecatomb of silence 

A wayward drill of antimonian impulse of fulminous diatribes and logocentric dogma otiose reflection in panoptic illusion 

The metonymic fragments of prosopopoeiac oracles embodied soul drawling accent at synecdocheic ciphers.

Does factious conjecture ever drift at proliferate of prolix prevarication?

Mantles of philodoxical philologies barked in defiance of otiose reflection 

Whereon anamnestic echoes exude exultant bells of apophatic discourse and higglepiggledy of heuristic axiom.

Ceaseless babble of endaemonic solace and endemic morass 

Treacly adorns the meandering streams of medulla outcast 

That exegetic torture at syntax of periphrastic maze beleaguers cacophonious clamour and dysphemistic outburst.

Kakistocracy of sullenness and obscene memories 

Deranged the golden hills of suspense and indestructible bugs.

A humble inquietude of the golden knights 

Vacuous grill of famorganic vapors in distant glees

Rhetorical fallacy much redound at shuddering lush.

What a labyrinth to live?