Cthonian Nocturne.(EP)

This  is an original piece in the style of a modernist epic. The poem, titled Chthonian Nocturne, delves into themes of metaphysical struggle, existential dread, and the human intellect's Sisyphean quest for ultimate understanding.

           

                  Chthonian Nocturne

Enjoy the poetic style in the shakespearean blend.

"From the chthonian coils where gnosis is interred,

The cerebrum, that protoplasmic burr,

Ejects its flustered, philomathic word—

A teleology, a spectral slur.

The phantasmagoria of diurnal rote,

The insipid grist of quotidian mill,

Is but a palimpsest where vapours float

And anomie assumes the world's cold will.

A metempsychosis of the human soul,

Transmogrified by some fell paraclete,

Recants its fealty to the cosmic whole,

And finds its solace in a bleak retreat.

What liminal interstices are we born

To navigate, with profligate disdain,

The hypnagogic fragments of the morn,

And supine languish in the evening's rain?

The noosphere, a web of thought-made things,

Is rent asunder by the mordant truth,

That logos, with its promethean wings,

Is still a captive of its feral youth.

The peripatetic quest for a sublime,

A noumenal escape from corporeal clay,

Is but a testament to wasted time,

A pharisaic plea for endless day.

The Weltanschauung is a fractured thing,

A polysemous echo in the void,

Where solipsistic mantras bravely sing,

And every praxis is a lie employed.

The hegemonic structure of the self,

A brittle fortress built on sand and bone,

Collapses under its own psychic pelf,

And leaves the derelict mind to moan.

The hermeneutics of the human heart,

Deciphered by a flawed and feeble eye,

Reveals a mendacity, a work of art

Forged in the shadow of a cosmic sigh.

We are but acolytes of the abattoir,

Where innocence is slaughtered for a name,

And every nascent, stellar avatar

Succumbs to some prevaricating flame.

The apotheosis of the final breath,

The grand denouement of the mortal coil,

Is no release, but just another death,

The fertile seeding of another soil.

And yet, we strive, with autodidactic zeal,

To annotate the vastness of the deep,

To find a verity that feels like real,

And lull our restless, anxious souls to sleep.

The epiphenomena of our despair,

The psychic flotsam of a wasted age,

Is but a testament to how we fare

Upon this cosmological, cruel stage.

The antinomies of our present state,

The dialectic of our fading light,

Propel us to a long-foregone debate,

Within the boundless, tenebrous of night.

The eschatological dread that seethes and swirls,

The apoplectic grip of final things,

Reminds us that this spinning orb still hurls

Through space, on its own preordained wings.

The numinous is but a feckless term,

A sop to the preterite and the profane,

A final, obfuscating, psychic germ,

To insulate us from the final pain.

We seek a telepathic, cosmic link,

A synchronicity with the all-that-is,

But every time we stand upon the brink,

We find a vacuum, and our spirits fizz.

The logorrhea of our futile prayer,

The unction of our self-important plea,

Is just a vapor on the listless air,

A plangent echo from eternity.

The paradigm is shifting, like the sands,

The epistemic bulwark starts to fade,

The architectonics crumble from our hands,

And in their place a new design is made.

But still, we cling to our own phallic hubris,

The potent symbol of a power past,

And wait for some grand, final, cosmic rubrics,

To tell us if this new construct can last.

The antediluvian past, a fossilized thought,

Still haunts the cavernous mind with its refrain,

That everything is meaningless and for nought,

Until we find a way to start again."

The following stanzas further explore the poem's themes of linguistic decay, epistemological crisis, cosmic indifference, and the labyrinthine nature of human consciousness, continuing in the same high-register, esoteric, and allusive style.

"From the chthonian coils where gnosis is interred,

The cerebrum, that protoplasmic burr,

Ejects its flustered, philomathic word—

A teleology, a spectral slur.

The phantasmagoria of diurnal rote,

The insipid grist of quotidian mill,

Is but a palimpsest where vapours float

And anomie assumes the world's cold will.

A metempsychosis of the human soul,

Transmogrified by some fell paraclete,

Recants its fealty to the cosmic whole,

And finds its solace in a bleak retreat.

What liminal interstices are we born

To navigate, with profligate disdain,

The hypnagogic fragments of the morn,

And supine languish in the evening's rain?

The noosphere, a web of thought-made things,

Is rent asunder by the mordant truth,

That logos, with its promethean wings,

Is still a captive of its feral youth.

The peripatetic quest for a sublime,

A noumenal escape from corporeal clay,

Is but a testament to wasted time,

A pharisaic plea for endless day.

The Weltanschauung is a fractured thing,

A polysemous echo in the void,

Where solipsistic mantras bravely sing,

And every praxis is a lie employed.

The hegemonic structure of the self,

A brittle fortress built on sand and bone,

Collapses under its own psychic pelf,

And leaves the derelict mind to moan.

The hermeneutics of the human heart,

Deciphered by a flawed and feeble eye,

Reveals a mendacity, a work of art

Forged in the shadow of a cosmic sigh.

We are but acolytes of the abattoir,

Where innocence is slaughtered for a name,

And every nascent, stellar avatar

Succumbs to some prevaricating flame.

The apotheosis of the final breath,

The grand denouement of the mortal coil,

Is no release, but just another death,

The fertile seeding of another soil.

And yet, we strive, with autodidactic zeal,

To annotate the vastness of the deep,

To find a verity that feels like real,

And lull our restless, anxious souls to sleep.

The epiphenomena of our despair,

The psychic flotsam of a wasted age,

Is but a testament to how we fare

Upon this cosmological, cruel stage.

The antinomies of our present state,

The dialectic of our fading light,

Propel us to a long-foregone debate,

Within the boundless, tenebrous of night.

The eschatological dread that seethes and swirls,

The apoplectic grip of final things,

Reminds us that this spinning orb still hurls

Through space, on its own preordained wings.

The numinous is but a feckless term,

A sop to the preterite and the profane,

A final, obfuscating, psychic germ,

To insulate us from the final pain.

We seek a telepathic, cosmic link,

A synchronicity with the all-that-is,

But every time we stand upon the brink,

We find a vacuum, and our spirits fizz.

The logorrhea of our futile prayer,

The unction of our self-important plea,

Is just a vapor on the listless air,

A plangent echo from eternity.

The paradigm is shifting, like the sands,

The epistemic bulwark starts to fade,

The architectonics crumble from our hands,

And in their place a new design is made.

But still, we cling to our own phallic hubris,

The potent symbol of a power past,

And wait for some grand, final, cosmic rubrics,

To tell us if this new construct can last.

The antediluvian past, a fossilized thought,

Still haunts the cavernous mind with its refrain,

That everything is meaningless and for nought,

Until we find a way to start again.

The noumena, a silent, spectral force,

Distorts the calculus of our intent,

And every vector on our mortal course

Is by its alien geometry bent.

A sublunary pathos, dark and deep,

A miasma from the tellurian core,

Wakes from the primal, somnolent abyss of sleep,

To whisper truths we've heard long, long before.

The anamnesis of a broken race,

A vestigial longing for the sun,

Is but a shadow in this empty space,

This Sisyphean task that's never done.

The eidetic memory of things not real,

The paralogisms of a troubled mind,

Attempt to forge a sense that we can feel,

A truth that is by its own nature blind.

The concatenation of all human fear,

An ontological and psychic weight,

Is but a whisper that we fail to hear,

As we capitulate to our own fate.

The cryptomnesia of forgotten sins,

The spectral echoes of a dead regret,

Are but the start of what our mind begins,

When we discover what we can't forget.

The sycophantic chorus of the mob,

The platitudinous cant of the profane,

Attempts to quell the existential throb,

And placate what we know is all in vain.

The cataleptic stillness of the soul,

When faced with its own nullity and end,

Is but a price exacted for the whole,

This futile journey where our lives transcend.

The apothegmatic nature of the lie,

The aphoristic poison of the creed,

Is but a final, whispered, cosmic cry,

A solitary, suffocating weed.

The esoterica of our final rites,

The hermetic arcana of our plea,

Is but a candle that we burn in nights,

To placate the indifferent, boundless sea.

The prolegomena to a greater myth,

A cosmogony of our own design,

Is built on nothing, and yet filled with pith,

An epigram upon a broken sign.

The solipsistic fortress of the mind,

A prison that we build for our own good,

Is all that we will ever hope to find,

Or ever hope to have misunderstood.

The aporia of being, and of thought,

The dialectic of the yes and no,

Is but a lesson that we all are taught,

A paradox that lets the spirit grow.

The panoply of reasons that we cite,

To justify the horror and the pain,

Is but a final, fading, feeble light,

A pallid, ineffectual, final stain.

The logomachy of the learned and the wise,

The academic bickering and fray,

Is but a prelude to the final sighs,

That mark the ending of our last, lost day.

The heterodoxy of the primal dream,

The atavistic longing for a past,

Is but a flotsam on a frigid stream,

A memory that was not built to last.

The eidolon of a future that's not real,

The utopian illusion of the soul,

Is just a wound we never want to heal,

A part that's sacrificed to feel the whole.

The apotheosis of the final form,

The perfect version that we want to be,

Is just a whisper in a cosmic storm,

A fleeting, fragile, and ironic decree.

The ineluctable shadow of the grave,

The inexorable march of final time,

Makes all our promises to keep, to save,

A sad and melancholic, petty rhyme.

The aporetic wonder of the child,

The questions that we all could never face,

Are lost and left upon a psychic wild, 

A faded echo in a silent space.

The syzygy of the sacred and profane,

The juxtaposition of the dark and bright,

Is but the structure of our final rain,

A final comfort in our final night.

The anamorphism of the distant star,

A twisted picture from a bygone time,

Reminds us of how insignificant we are,

A cosmic whisper in a fragile rhyme.

The hypostasis of the coming end,

The substance of a future that we dread,

Is but a promise that we can't pretend

Has not been given since the world was bred.

The pleroma of the void, the empty all,

The fullness of the nothing that we face,

Is just a whisper, and a silent call,

That echoes in this cold, forgotten place.

The eschatology of the final word,

The last syllable that we can impart,

Is just a lie that we have all preferred,

A final poison for a fading heart.

The chrysalis of thought, the broken sheath,

From which no brighter form could ever spring,

Is all that we are left with underneath,

The bitter promise that we'll never sing.

The apotheosis of the final thought,

The perfect answer that we hope to find,

Is just a war that we have always fought,

Inside the lonely caverns of the mind.

The dialectical struggle for the light,

The aporia of the truth and of the lie,

Is but a final, agonizing fight,

A fatal question for a final sigh.

The demiurge of a corrupted will,

The maker of a world that's filled with pain,

Is just the silence when the world is still,

The echo of a long, forgotten rain.

The noumenal abyss of what's not known,

The numinous dread of all that we can't see,

Is but a harvest that we've never sown,

The barren crop of our eternity.

The hermetic language of the final plea,

The cabalistic whisper of the prayer,

Is but a bottle thrown into the sea,

An epitaph upon the final air.

The phantasmagoria of the final sight,

The broken images that fall and fade,

Is just the end of a long, lonely night,

A futile promise that was never made.

The teleology of the final end,

The purposeless purpose that we all project,

Is but a shadow, and we can't pretend

That there's a reason for what we inspect.

The apophatic naming of the void,

The giving name to what we cannot see,

Is but a final lie we have employed,

To justify our own futility.

The cataclysmic end of all that's known,

The entropy of what we have possessed,

Is just a final seed that has been sown,

The final promise of our final rest.

The protoplasmic stir of final death,

The atavistic memory of the clay,

Is just the whisper of the final breath,

The ending of our long, and lonely day.

The plangent echo of a broken vow,

The faded promise of a better thing,

Is all that we are left with, here and now,

The lonely song that we will never sing.

The exegesis of a broken dream,

The careful parsing of a final lie,

Is but the flotsam on a frigid stream,

The empty answer for a final sigh.

The anamnesis of a broken star,

The memory of a fire that has gone cold,

Reminds us of how insignificant we are,

And of a story that can not be told.

The hermeneutic circle of the soul,

The endless loop of question and reply,

Is but the striving for a final whole,

A fragile answer for a final why.

The antinomian freedom of the self,

The broken promise of a final good,

Is just a treasure on a barren shelf,

A thing that's never been, or understood.

The protoplasm of a primal dread,

The substance of a fear that has no name,

Is just the echo of a final head,

The final shadow of a fading flame.

The philomathic search for what is true,

The hunger for a knowledge we can't keep,

Is just a shadow of a thing that's new,

The fragile promise of a final sleep.

The teleological end of all that's made,

The final purpose that we all conceive,

Is just a shadow that we can't evade,

The final thing in which we can't believe.

The eschatological weight of all that's wrong,

The final sin that we can never face,

Is just the echo of a final song,

The final ending of a final space.

The atavistic pull of ancient bone,

The protoplasmic stirring of the past,

Is just a comfort that we've never known,

A final promise that can never last.

The panoply of what we cannot see,

The numinous terror of the final dread,

Is just the promise of a final plea,

The final whisper of a final head.

The hermetic circle of the final lie,

The endless loop of what we can't admit,

Is just the answer for a final why,

The final ending of a final writ.

The eidolon of a future that is gone,

The fading ghost of what we could have been,

Is just a memory of a distant dawn,

A fading whisper in a final scene.

The hypostasis of a final dream,

The substance of a hope that's gone to seed,

Is just the flotsam on a frozen stream,

The final comfort of a final creed.

The pleroma of a final, final void,

The fullness of a nothing that we face,

Is just the promise of a life that's been destroyed,

The final ending of a final place.

The apophatic naming of the final end,

The giving name to what we cannot know,

Is just a final lie we can't pretend

Has not been given to us, years ago.

The cataclysmic end of all that we possess,

The entropy of what we have believed,

Is just a final promise of a final, final rest,

The final ending we have all received.

The protoplasmic stir of all that has to be,

The final substance of a final lie,

Is just the ending of eternity,

The final answer for a final why.

The philomathic ending of the mind,

The final closing of a searching gaze,

Is just the end of what we could have find,

The ending of our lonely, ancient days.

The teleological whisper of the bone,

The primal purpose that we cannot see,

Is just a comfort that we've never known,

The final substance of our final plea.

The eschatological quiet of the dust,

The final ending of a final thought,

Is just the promise of a final rust,

The final battle that we've always fought.

The atavistic pull of final sleep,

The protoplasmic ending of the soul,

Is just a promise that we cannot keep,

The final journey to a final goal.

The panoply of what we can't conceive,

The numinous terror of the final lie,

Is just the final thing in which we can't believe,

The final ending of a final sky.

The hermetic circle of the final truth,

The endless loop of question and reply,

Is just the promise of a final youth,

The final answer to a final why.

The eidolon of a final, fading dream,

The ghost of what we could have been before,

Is just the whisper on a silent stream,

The final promise of an empty shore.

The hypostasis of a final, final end,

The substance of a hope that's gone to seed,

Is just the promise that we can't pretend,

The final comfort of a final creed.

The pleroma of a final, final void,

The fullness of a nothing that we see,

Is just a promise of a life that's been destroyed,

The final ending of eternity.

The philomathic turning of the key,

The unlocking of a door that's never been,

Is just the final thing that we can see,

The final end of a forgotten scene.

The teleological ending of the world,

The final purpose of a final plea,

Is just a promise that we've all been hurled,

Into the silence of a final sea.

The eschatological echo of the sound,

The final echo of a final word,

Is just a secret that can not be found,

The final promise that we've never heard.

The atavistic longing for the end,

The protoplasmic yearning for the dust,

Is just a wound that we cannot pretend

Has not been poisoned by a final trust.

The panoply of what we can't explain,

The numinous terror of a final god,

Is just the echo of a final rain,

The final ending of a final sod.

The hermetic circle of a final, fatal thought,

The endless loop of what we can't deny,

Is just the lesson that we've all been taught,

The final answer for a final why.

The eidolon of a final, empty space,

The ghost of what we could have been alone,

Is just the fading echo of a face,

The final ending of a final stone.

The hypostasis of a final, final dread,

The substance of a fear that has no name,

Is just the promise of a final head,

The final shadow of a fading flame.

The pleroma of a final, final word,

The fullness of a lie that has been told,

Is just the final thing that we have heard,

The final story of a life grown old.

The atavistic comfort of the night,

The protoplasmic promise of the earth,

Is just the closing of a final light,

The final ending of a final birth.

The panoply of what we have forgot,

The numinous terror of a final gaze,

Is just the ending of a final plot,

The final end of our mistaken maze.

The hermetic circle of a final, final dream,

The endless loop of what we can't recall,

Is just the ending of a silent stream,

The final ending of a final, final fall.

The eidolon of a final, fading face,

The ghost of what we could have been alone,

Is just the echo of a final space,

The final ending of a final stone.

The hypostasis of a final, final thought,

The substance of a fear that has no name,

Is just the final battle that we've always fought,

The final ending of a final flame.

The pleroma of a final, final lie,

The fullness of a word that has been told,

Is just the promise of a final, final sigh,

The final story of a life grown old.

The apophatic ending of the final name,

The giving name to what we can't conceive,

Is just the ending of a final flame,

The final promise that we can't believe.

The cataclysmic quiet of the final sleep,

The entropy of what we have become,

Is just the final secret that we have to keep,

The final ending of a final drum.

The protoplasmic stirring of the start,

The atavistic memory of the end,

Is just the ending of a broken heart,

The final ending of a final, final friend."end

My Top Fifty Special Poetry Collections(EP).

A poem is a form of literary art that uses the aesthetic qualities of language, such as sound and rhythm, to evoke meaning in addition to, or in place of, literal meanings. While many use rhyme and meter, poems can also be written in free verse, which has no specific rules. A poem can tell a story, express emotions, paint an image, or provoke thought.

Key characteristics of poetry

Imagery: Vivid sensory details that allow the reader to experience the poem's subject matter.

Rhythm and sound: The pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables (meter), word sounds (alliteration, assonance), and repetition contribute to a musical quality.

Figurative language: Poetic devices like metaphors, similes, and symbolism create rich, layered meaning beyond the literal.

Condensation: The careful and deliberate choice of words allows a poem to express complex ideas and emotions in a concise way.

Famous short poems for beginners

"Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley: A 14-line sonnet that reflects on the inevitable decline of power and human hubris.

"The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost: A well-known poem about choices and their consequences, often misinterpreted as a straightforward tribute to individualism.

"Hope' is the thing with feathers" by Emily Dickinson: A poem that uses an extended metaphor to explore the nature of hope.

"Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost: A short, yet potent, work that contemplates how the world might end.

"In a Station of the Metro" by Ezra Pound: A two-line Imagist poem that captures a powerful image in very few words.

How to engage with a poem

There is no single correct way to interpret a poem, but approaching it in a thoughtful way can enhance your experience.

Read it aloud: Many poems are written with sound and rhythm in mind. Hearing the words can help you understand the cadence and feel.

Focus on the imagery: What does the poem make you see, hear, feel, or taste? Pay attention to the specific and vivid sensory details.

Consider the word choice: Note any words or phrases that seem particularly striking or unusual. What do they suggest?.

Look for surprises: Notice any unexpected twists in language or thought. A change in tone or repetition can shift the meaning.

Reflect on the emotion: Poems often evoke an emotional response. Consider what the central feeling is and what experiences in your own style

Before i introduce my top special fifty Collections first read my top yen.

               First top ten poems

1.The streetlights bleed their yellow light

in trembling ribbons on the wet asphalt.

A car's sighing rush, the city's muted breath.

2.Each silver coin of water strikes and shatters.

Rotting ribs of faded paint,

a ghost upon the shore.

The tide forgets its name,

and remembers with a salty roar.

3. Kitchen window

4. Pocket watch

The tick and tock, a measured beat,

a heart of brass and tiny gears.

A captured history, bitter-sweet,

the quiet passing of the years.

5. First frost

The green grass shivers into white,

a dusting of a sudden age.

The last rose blushes in the light,

and turns a frosted, silver page.

6. Empty swing

A shadow sways with phantom grace,

a gentle echo in the park.

A child's laughter fills the space,

before it vanishes in the dark.

7. Coffee cup

The dark swirl offers up a steam,

a rising ghost of bitter heat.

A silent, solitary dream,

to make the morning's start complete.

8. The gardener's hands

Dirt beneath each patient nail,

a map of seasons, sun, and toil.

From tender sprout to leafy trail,

they feel the wisdom of the soil.

9. Forgotten book

A yellow beetle on the track,

carrying strangers, dim and slow.

The city passes, looking back,

the faces glimmer and then go.

10.Asinine

Do not sound childish and there are

Those who sound so long after bring

Grown.Go to the wise and brace up

Childhood thing is once in a lifetime.

My top fifty special Collections 

 

1. City rain

The rain of glory fell at last and we re made .We fell into the new era under rain of prosperity much exclusive than the cintu rain

2. Old boat

A spider web, a fragile lace,

catches the dawn, a jeweled snare.

The kettle sings its morning grace;

a day is caught in fragile air.

The pages whisper brittle lies,

of plots undone and stories lost.

A binding sealed with careful sighs,

a promise broken by the cost.

10. Late night streetcar

Continuing with the theme of short, evocative poems, here are forty more on a variety of subjects and emotions.

11. Seashell

A hollow echo, spiraled tight,

the ocean’s memory contained.

It holds a shadow of the light,

of waves it struggled to have gained.

12. Lost key

A jagged secret, silvered rust,

tucked deep inside a city crack.

A door it opens to no trust,

a path it never can turn back.

13. Cracked pavement

A fragile map of ancient wars,

where small green things begin to rise.

The asphalt shows its open sores,

and drinks the water from the skies.

14. Old photograph

A sepia moment, soft and blurred,

a captured laugh, a faded hand.

A silent, solitary word,

from a forgotten, distant land.

15. Lighthouse keeper

The spinning lamp, a constant sigh,

that cuts a path across the spray.

He watches storms with one tired eye,

and burns the darkness all away.

16. Falling star

A final, burning, whispered wish,

a bright defeat against the vast.

A moment of celestial bliss,

too wild and beautiful to last.

17. Abandoned house

The window eyes are hollow now,

the porch a ruin of old time.

A ghost of what it was, and how

a life unfolded from its chime.

18. City skyline at dusk

The glass and concrete towers stand,

and catch the sun in golden squares.

A thousand windows, close at hand,

unfolding evening, unawares.

19. Worn-out map

The paper wrinkles like a face,

the ink is smudged, the roads are ghosts.

It charts a long-forgotten place,

and memories of distant coasts.

20. Garden gate

The hinges groan with rust and age,

a portal into tangled green.

It turns a new and hopeful page,

upon a world that is serene.

21. Library

A million voices, hushed and still,

in paper tombs and ink-filled graves.

The wisdom whispers on the sill,

of all the knowledge that it saves.

22. Forgotten town

The empty street, the leaning store,

the sign that hangs by one loose screw.

A memory and nothing more,

beneath a sky of faded blue.

23. Subway car

A moving box of human sighs,

that rattles through a sunless way.

A dozen strangers meet their eyes,

and go about their busy day.

24. Old compass

The needle trembles, points to north,

a rusty, faithful, constant friend.

It shows the way, and so comes forth,

a guiding hand until the end.

25. Cafe at night

The lonely chatter, hiss of steam,

the window glass that holds a fog.

A late night, solitary dream,

inside a small, warm, tired log.

26. Carousel

The painted ponies rise and fall,

a looping song, a constant spin.

A child’s wild, momentary call,

to let the joyful world rush in.

27. Train whistle

A sudden cry, a fading wail,

that echoes in the darkest night.

A story on a silver rail,

of leaving quickly, taking flight.

28. Empty room

A silent space, where nothing stays,

the dust motes dance in slanting light.

An echo of the brighter days,

a hollow comfort in the night.

29. Street musician

The open case, a tarnished brass,

the tired fingers on the strings.

A silver melody to pass,

on the small moment that it brings.

30. Broken mirror

A shattered truth in jagged space,

the splintered self, the fractured view.

A thousand versions of one face,

and none of them entirely new.

31. Scarecrow

A silent watcher in the field,

of tattered clothes and weathered straw.

A lonely promise, to be shielded

from nature's cruel and constant law.

32. Dusty attic

Even when we moved into the new house,we met dilapidated dusty attu.So fortu when had no fund to buu new chairs.We gleaned them and we added them to remaining chairs were useful for a time prior to new purchases

33. Rainy afternoon

The window drips a gentle sound,

the city softens in the gray.

The world is turning, slow and drowned,

and held within a washed-out day.

34. Park bench

 My brother travelled to London and at relaxed period rest at the public pack.I asked him during calls where were you?He says at the pack.Do they have rich folks three?Both rich and poor.But why do they castigate poor who sit at brt nus stop in Lagos as nobody?Is quite common and abuse that the park were meant for the poor.Too petty.

35. Grandfather clock

My grand father's clock introduced fortune

To my father.Though It didnt last but It carve him an identity forever.We lay and still live on the same till date.Remember tour grandfather clock It bring santity , wisdom and prosperity.

36. Single cloud.

A loud niche draws cloud from a single loop.As soon as the rain drops cloud is turns into blessing.A single cloud at tour beckon is all you need for lifetime forays.Wait for the loop of a single cloud.

37. Locked gate

The rusted chain, the heavy bar,

a final stop, a sudden end.

The path continues, though it’s far,

and has a silent message to send.

38. Autumn leaf

A final gasp of burning red,

before it lets the branches fall.

A last and hurried word is said,

in answer to the season's call.

39. Paper boat

A folded hope upon the stream,

that sails into an unknown sea.

The fragile vessel of a dream,

of where a future waits to be.

40. Lighthouse beam

A steady sweep of hopeful light,

that marks a path on a dark wave.

It guides the traveler in the night,

and promises that it will save.

The sizzling smells, the hurried sound,

the crowded, breathing, human stream.

Where stolen treasures can be found,

and every bargain is a dream.

41. Forgotten toy

A painted eye, a broken arm,

a smile that's faded with the years.

A remnant of a childhood charm,

that holds a weight of vanished tears.

42. Quiet street

The sleeping houses, warm and deep,

the shadows lengthen, soft and slow.

The silent promises they keep,

of secrets that the pavement knows.

43. Forgotten promise

A faded line, a whispered word,

the memory of a touch, a hand.

A hope that’s suddenly been heard,

and vanished like a ghost of sand.

44. Distant bell

Distant bells the alarming bells that trigger dread from low valley to the golden hills

It triggers haste in the squanderers of time.To those who hone consciousness in the use of time hail distant bells for their curiousity and result orientation

May time reaches thee the fear to manage him.

45. Single candle

A tiny flame, a little spire,

that holds the darkness at the bay.

A fragile, warm, and steady fire,

against the coming of the day.

46. City morning

The rising sun, a bleary stare,

that catches rooftops, tall and gray.

The morning breathes a humid air,

and sends a city on its way.

47. Hidden path

The weeds and branches hide a trail,

of stones that turn a mossy green.

The promise of a secret tale,

behind a lost and silent scene.

48. Lonely road

The asphalt stretches, long and wide,

a line that leads to an unknown.

A lonely thought to walk inside,

and find a place to call your own.

49. Last of summer

The golden light, a final gift,

before the colder winds descend.

The summer gives a gentle shift,

a quiet, and a tired end.

The trunk of secrets, tied with twine,

the scent of memories and lace.

A tangled, silent, private shrine,

to hold what time cannot erase.

A weathered wood, a faded green,

that holds the marks of stories told.

The quiet backdrop to a scene,

of young and hopeful, and of old.

The pendulum, a steady sigh,

that marks the coming and the gone.

The hands of time that climb so high,

and measure out another dawn.

A passing drift, a breath of white,

that shadows sun and alters grace.

It holds a promise of the night,

and moves across the endless space.

50. Night market

A lonely chime across the gray,

that marks the passing of the hours.

It sends a message on its way,

from some forgotten, empty towers.

Ask anything

Ogbomosho Ajilete.part one.{EP).

Now here is a novel idea about the Ogbomosho Ajilete fetish war with 50 chapters, detailing how the Ajilete fetish soldiers might defeat American soldiers during a third World War. This is a fictional concept, blending Yoruba mythology with modern military science fiction, and is not a factual account.

Novel title: Oríkì of the Ajilete: The Fated War

In a futuristic Third World War, when modern weaponry fails against new global threats, the ancient Ajilete lineage of Ogbomosho must awaken their sacred ancestral powers to defend their homeland and, ultimately, defeat the technologically superior American military.

Book structure: A 50-chapter breakdown

Part 1: The Gathering Storm (Chapters 1–10)

Chapter 1: The Last Elder. We are introduced to the last surviving elder of the Ajilete lineage, Baale Akanji, living in a secluded, futuristic Ogbomosho. He possesses fragmented knowledge of the old ways.

Chapter 2: The Prophet's Vision. A young Ajilete, Omotayo, has a vivid, prophetic dream of a coming war, showing images of unfamiliar technology and a global conflict. The dream reveals that the Ajilete will be crucial to stopping it.

Chapter 3: The Call to Arms. The Third World War erupts, and Nigeria is drawn into the conflict. The American military, with its advanced drone technology and cyberwarfare, establishes a strategic base near Ogbomosho.

Chapter 4: The Whispers of Ancestors. When American drones scout the Ajilete's sacred forests, they mysteriously malfunction and crash. Akanji recognizes this as the first stirring of the ancestral forces.

Chapter 5: The Unveiling. Akanji begins to train Omotayo and a small group of young Ajilete in the ancient spiritual practices that have been dormant for generations.

Chapter 6: The Sacred Oath. The warriors undergo a ritual, receiving the oríkì—a unique, praise-based incantation that unlocks their enhanced physical and spiritual abilities.

Chapter 7: The Test of Faith. The first clash occurs. A small American reconnaissance team is sent to investigate the drone crashes. The young Ajilete, still in training, use their nascent powers to confuse and repel them, creating a local mystery.

Chapter 8: The Military's Dilemma. American commanders are baffled. Their advanced surveillance shows no enemy combatants, yet their units are being turned back by unseen forces.

Chapter 9: The Power of Orisa. The Ajilete receive blessings from the Orisa, the Yoruba deities, who grant them supernatural protection and powers tailored to their specific needs in the upcoming war.

Chapter 10: The Point of No Return. Both sides prepare for a larger confrontation. The Ajilete, with newfound powers, accept their destiny to protect their home, while the Americans prepare a full-scale incursion.

Part 2: The Spiritual War (Chapters 11–30)

Chapter 11: The Forest's Trap. The American invasion begins, but the Ajilete's ancestral spirits transform the forest into an impenetrable, hostile labyrinth for the Americans.

Chapter 12: Mind over Machine. The Ajilete learn to project their spirits to disable American machinery, causing tanks to stall and weapons to jam with unseen force.

Chapter 13: The Living Shield. An Ajilete warrior, using their oríkì, becomes a "living shield," deflecting gunfire with no physical harm.

Chapter 14: The Ancestral Voice. An American soldier hears the disembodied, mocking voices of Ajilete ancestors, causing a psychological breakdown within their ranks.

Chapter 15: The Deception. The Ajilete use illusions rooted in spiritual power to make their small numbers appear as a vast army, causing the Americans to retreat in confusion.

Chapter 16: The Spirit of the Land. The earth itself turns against the invaders. The ground becomes soft mud, thorny vines spring up, and paths disappear.

Chapter 17: The Siege of Ogbomosho. American forces lay siege to the city, but the Ajilete's spiritual power creates an invisible barrier, protecting the inhabitants.

Chapter 18: The Sky of Fetishes. The Ajilete channel their magic into the sky, creating storms and unsettling the American air force.

Chapter 19: The Enemy's Soul. A young American soldier with a connection to the spiritual realm begins to question his orders as he witnesses the truth of the Ajilete's power.

Chapter 20: The Turning Point. An American commander, determined to break the siege, orders the use of a new, highly destructive weapon, but Omotayo's powers predict the strike and she diverts it.

Chapter 21–30: The Escalation. This section would detail a series of smaller battles and skirmishes where the Ajilete use increasingly advanced spiritual techniques to counter every technological advancement thrown at them. The Americans, in turn, become more desperate, turning to less conventional methods.

Chapter 31: The Last Stand. Both sides gather their remaining forces for a final, decisive battle. The American army, now aware of the spiritual nature of their enemy, has developed countermeasures to disrupt their powers.

Chapter 32: The Union of Forces. The Ajilete call upon all Yoruba spiritual traditions and practices, uniting different fetish priests from across the country to stand with them.

Chapter 33: The Heart of the War. The climax of the battle. The American commander leads his most elite unit against Omotayo, who now fully embodies the Ajilete's ancient strength.

Chapter 34: The Fading of Machines. As Omotayo unleashes her full potential, American technology begins to fail completely. The physical world bends to the will of the Ajilete.

Chapter 35: The Commander's Choice. The American commander is forced to confront a truth far beyond his understanding. He can either admit defeat or be destroyed.

Chapter 36: The End of an Era. The Americans, facing a foe they can't comprehend, retreat in disarray. The Third World War is effectively over, with the Ajilete and their allies now holding the power to enforce a new, more peaceful world order.

Chapter 37–45: The Aftermath. The world is forced to reconcile with the new reality where ancient spirituality proved more powerful than modern technology. The Ajilete become guardians of a newly awakened world, and Ogbomosho becomes a hub of spiritual power and enlightenment.

Chapter 46: The Final Lesson. Omotayo reflects on the war, the lessons learned, and the responsibilities her people now hold. She teaches the world that true power lies not in technology, but in the heart, traditions, and connection to the spiritual realm.

Chapter 47: The Next Generation. A new generation of Ajilete children are born, destined to continue the legacy and ensure that the world never again forgets the power of tradition and belief.

Chapter 48: Peace on Earth. The novel concludes with a new era of global peace, led by the wisdom of the Ajilete. The American soldiers, now allies, share their technology with the Ajilete, who adapt it to their spiritual needs.

Chapter 49: The Covenant. The Ajilete make a covenant with the world, promising to use their power for good and to protect the planet from future threats.

Chapter 50: The Sun Rises Again. The sun rises over Ogbomosho, and the Ajilete, now revered guardians of the world, stand on a new frontier where ancient traditions and modern technology coexist in harmony.

Part 3: The Final Confrontation (Chapters 31–50)

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.

What are some good techniques to write a poem? - Quora

Quora

Help me, please! How to write contemporary poems? - Quora

Quora

How to Avoid Using Cliches - Dragoncave

Blogger.com

Show all

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.