The parrhesiastic speech, a sacred, vital stake,
Is lost within the echo of the empty songs we sing.
(Stanza 259)
The anhedonia, a numbness of the soul and mind,
Replaces the simple joy, the innocent, childlike bliss.
The dysphemistic torrent, a toxic, verbal, brutal kind,
Is the final, vile pollution of a once-authentic kiss.
(Stanza 260)
The hypostatic fissure, where the spirit falls away,
Reveals the empty vessel, the husk that remains behind.
The apocalyptic calm, at the twilight of our day,
Is the last, pathetic offering of a lost and broken kind.
(Stanza 261)
The proleptic foreboding, a premonition of the end,
Foreshadows a calamity that we refuse to see.
The palinodes, we sing, a futile wish to mend,
The broken, shattered pieces of our fragile, frail decree.
(Stanza 262)
The solipsistic prison, a self-imposed, plush cage,
Insulates us from the clamor of the vibrant, living world.
Our personal narrative, a narcissistic, pathetic stage,
Where a solitary, histrionic banner is unfurled.
(Stanza 263)
The ataraxic illusion, a palliative, numbing balm,
Disguises the underlying, festering, malignant, creeping rot.
The ineluctable decay, a silent, spectral psalm,
Is the only remaining, the final, melancholic, fatal thought.
(Stanza 264)
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