Aeolian Lamentations .Stanzas 1-50

Stanza 45

The ontothrax, a fracture in the soul's own deep design,

Reveals the leucocryptic secrets of the cosmic sign.

The chronophage, in hungered, glaucous light,

Devours the precious moments of the sacred night.

The hypnopompic shimmer, a fragile, silver gleam,

Breaks on the eidolic waters of a waking dream.

The anaphasic purpose, a purpose yet untold,

Is forged from nyctophile desires, ancient, deep, and cold.

Stanza 46

The hylotrope unfolds, a pattern on the air,

A plangorous design of delicate despair.

The morphemic rustle of a truth we can't reclaim,

Is the ectosyne of sorrow, in a silent, cosmic name.

The epistomic fall, a silent, graceful end,

Is the noemic shadow of a fractured friend.

The psychogeodesic form, a geometric dread,

Is built upon the ghosts of futures, lost and dead.

Stanza 47

The vesperal whispers, a nosodyne for the heart,

Are but the telotropic remnants of a fall apart.

The lumiphobic shadow, a darkness ever new,

Reflects the anomian chaos, in a spectral hue.

The karyotic coil unwinds, a spiral, bitter, deep,

While albedinous specters haunt the souls asleep.

The xenospore of being, a seed of fragile light,

Is lost within the nulliverse of endless night.

Stanza 48

The dyscrasic heart, a nulliform of pain,

Perceives the nullibit of an eternal rain.

The kalopsia breaks, a vision frail and thin,

Exposing the chalybeate truth we hold within.

The glimmertude of hope, a momentary grace,

Is swallowed by the threnetic song of time and space.

The umbrifuge of sorrow, a final, cold embrace,

Erases every memory, and every faded trace.

Stanza 49

The aporia returns, a question, sharp and keen,

Reflecting the teleomorph of what has been.

The syzygy of anguish, a perfect, bitter pair,

Is etched upon the silent, noctilucent air.

The paraclete's despair, a rusted, broken line,

Leads to the albedinous memory, once divine.

The nullibit of purpose, a silent, empty space,

Is all that lingers, in this haunted, timeless place.

Stanza 50

And so the cycle turns, a chronoclast of dread,

Upon the silent, lonely path we always tread.

The hylomorph of being, a pattern ever new,

Is etched upon the silent, psoriatic dew.

The neganthrope returns, a voidal, silent art,

To break the final fragments of the human heart.

The ouroboros consumes, its meaning and its end,

A final, quiet sorrow, we can't comprehend