The Unfolding Aeon
Upon the plinth of a forgotten aeon, a silent sentry stands,
A monument to mien and mythos, wrought by dead divining hands.
Its surface, once a gleaming tessera, now gnawn by caustic gusts,
A hieroglyph of human hubris, returned to elemental dust.
The solipsistic sun, a brazen eye, observes the slow decline,
Illuminating, with an acrid glare, this sepulchral design.
The air, a viscous, fuliginous miasma, clings to crenellated spires,
Where spectral catafalques are nested, lit by phantasmagoric fires.
From the chthonic depths, the threnody of earth's tectonic grief,
Rises to meet the zenith's hollow promise, a petrified relief.
The firmament, a grimoire of the cosmic, scrolls its cyan pages,
Etching ephemera into the chronicle of preordained stages.
We are but palimpsests of passions, scrawled on parchment worn,
Our brief existences a flicker, between the dusk and morn.
A susurrus of seraphic sighs whispers through the blighted reeds,
A plangent lamentation for the death of all our fervent deeds.
The rivers, once an argent artery, now flow with atramentous bile,
A moribund reminder of the fleetingness of every human wile.
Within the subterranean catacombs, where antediluvian echoes sleep,
The cryptonymic roots of history burrow, a secret truth to keep.
For life, a tessellated tapestry of transient, gaudy threads,
Is woven on the loom of circumstance, and then with swiftness shreds.
The parallax of our perception, a warped and faulty glass,
Shows only shards of a mosaic, as fleeting moments pass.
We seek a final, fundamental axiom, a truth both stark and grand,
But grasp instead the shifting simulacrum, the ever-sifting sand.
The past, a phantom limb of memory, aches with a phantom pain,
A dolorous and deep nostalgia for what we cannot reclaim.
The future, a hypnagogic murmur, a promise undefined,
A nebulous and nacreous conception, lost to a failing mind.
And so, we tread this mortal coil, a funambulist's frail line,
Between the chasms of the actual, and the realms of the divine.
The grandiloquent pronouncements of our vaunted, mortal schemes,
Are but a soporific whisper, drowned in soporific dreams.
Our words, a brittle, friable façade, that crumble and descend,
A logomachy of lexicography, without a purpose or an end.
The only truth that truly resonates, as
Prolegomenon to an Absent Tome
Upon the proscenium of a fading age,
The ineluctable shadow plays its part;
A catafalque of dreams on history’s page,
Where mordant echoes break the weary heart.
The aphanitic cosmos, vast and cold,
Recedes from sight, a numinous retreat,
As syzygy of stories, told and untold,
Recapitulates a truth both bittersweet.
The diurnal rhythm, an opaline hum,
Obscures the vesperal's somnolent plea,
A quotidian, bellicose pandemonium
Of human hubris and causality.
Our parlous lives, a friable design,
Adorned with nascent chicanery,
A specious artifice, a fractured sign
Of an effete and feckless legacy.
The plangent threnody of nascent doubt
Permeates the stultified esprit,
A querulous and lugubrious rout,
As fading futures abjure certainty.
A susurrus of soporific whispers
Circumlocutes a verity opaque,
While tenuous, arcane vicissitudes
For fleeting, phantasmal purpose make.
The hypnagogic murmur of the mind
Rehearses an ephemeral sojourn,
A simulacrum that we leave behind,
For which the feckless consciousness will yearn.
The unctuous sophistry of gilded words
Belies the pathos festering beneath,
A logomachy that merely girds
The fragile ego with a borrowed wreath.
The scoliotic logic of the crowd
Rejects the acumen of piercing sight,
An intellectual pariah, disallowed,
From basking in the sun of clearer light.
The diaphanous deceit of simple things,
A translucent, guileless, artful guise,
A venal narrative that softly sings,
Of truths that never graced a cynic's eyes.
The crepuscular descent, a gilded haze,
Obfuscates the final, mortal dread,
A peripatetic progress through a maze,
To join the company of countless dead.
The incandescent malice of the sun,
A puissant and pernicious, brazen glare,
Ensures that nothing precious can be spun,
From dust and motes suspended in the air.
This is a testament, a palimpsest,
A brittle chronicle, a faint decree,
That in this cosmic, somber, epic quest,
We find a grandiloquent nullity.
The fuliginous miasma of the past,
An atavistic phantom in the gloom,
Holds present-day convictions steadfast,
A sepulchral tenant in a vibrant room.
The callipygian idols, once revered,
Are fractured shards of memory’s decay,
The numismatics of a faith endeared,
Eschewed as jejune fancy of a day.
The obsequious wind, a pliant ghost,
Assents to every mendicant's refrain,
A perfunctory, otiose host,
Bereft of purpose, born of bitter pain.
(The new sections delve further into themes of cosmic indifference, the nature of time, and the human struggle for meaning against a backdrop of universal decay)
The cosmic parallax, a skewed design,
A simulacrum etched on failing sight,
Where nebulae and galaxies align,
To mock the human clamor in the night.
The fulminations of a frenzied age,
Are but a whisper lost in silent space;
A brief and brittle passage on the stage,
A fleeting, iridescent, fragile trace.
The antediluvian ghosts of epochs past,
Emerge from deep within the chthonic soil,
A phantasmal and moribund forecast,
Of all our mortal, ephemeral toil.
The crepuscular descent, a gilded haze,
Obfuscates the final, mortal dread,
A peripatetic progress through a maze,
To join the company of countless dead.
This is a testament, a palimpsest,
A brittle chronicle, a faint decree,
That in this cosmic, somber, epic quest,
We find a grandiloquent nullity.
The metronome of time, a steady beat,
Commands the dissolution of the soul,
A rhythmic, ineluctable defeat,
To render all our efforts less than whole.
And on the palisade of fractured hope,
The cynosure of some forgotten star,
The human spirit learns, and learns to grope,
For meaning in a conflict pitched too far.
The argot of the universe, a tongue
Of silence, vacuum, and of vacant stare,
Is spoken to the old as to the young,
A cold and callous message of despair.
The littoral of being, washed by grief,
Reveals the jetsam of a shattered past,
A friable and morbid, dark relief,
Where transient memories refuse to last.
The diaphanous deceit of simple things,
A translucent, guileless, artful guise,
A venal narrative that softly sings,
Of truths that never graced a cynic's eyes.
The stultified imagination fails,
To penetrate the cosmic artifice,
As logic, like a dying echo, trails,
Into a silent, meaningless abyss.
The tessellated firmament above,
A masterpiece of cold and dark design,
Is not a testament to cosmic love,
But evidence of a malignant sign.
The catafalque of a forgotten god,
Lies buried underneath a thousand years,
Beneath the earth where human feet have trod,
And watered with a thousand, futile tears.
The epistemic void, a yawning chasm,
Devours the fragile wisdom of our kind,
A silent, suffocating cataclysm,
That leaves all certainty far, far behind.
The hermetic language of the ancient seers,
Is just a whisper lost to wind and stone,
As every meaning slowly disappears,
And leaves the soul bewildered and alone.
The ineffable is spoken of in hushed,
And reverential, and pathetic tones,
By souls whose ardent promises were crushed,
Beneath the weight of universal moans.
The antinomian impulse of the heart,
Rejects the tenets of a rigid fate,
But plays a solitary, futile part,
In closing an already bolted gate.
The petrichor of memory, a scent
Of rainfall on a past that will not be,
Is a somnambulant, and sad descent,
Into a self that we no longer see.
This continuation builds on the previously established tone, diction, and themes, extending the epic into a deeper contemplation of humanity's place within a vast, indifferent universe.
The incandescent malice of the sun,
A puissant and pernicious, brazen glare,
Ensures that nothing precious can be spun,
From dust and motes suspended in the air.
And so, we navigate the human dread,
And weave a meaning from the flimsy air,
As silent, unremembered moments, fled,
Dissolve in cosmic, quiet, blank despair.
This poem continues in the same vein of epic and intricate language, exploring the grand, yet desolate, scale of existence. The new stanzas delve into the nature of memory, the search for meaning, and the indifferent cosmos. The vocabulary becomes increasingly abstract, focusing on philosophical concepts and psychological state
The noöetic edifice, so grandly built,
On axioms derived from faulty sight,
Is but a fragile construct, warped and spilt,
By the ineffable encroachment of the night.
The mnemonic ghosts, a pallid pantomime,
Perform their dolorous and fleeting play,
A recapitulation, marked by fleeting time,
Of what the gnawing aeons steal away.
The telos, once a beacon, shining bright,
A promised apotheosis, pure and true,
Has dissipated in the cosmic blight,
A phantom promise, vanished from the view.
The somnolent subconscious, a deep abyss,
Where cryptonymic truths are laid to sleep,
Is but a fragile and ephemeral kiss,
Upon the surface of a primal deep.
The aporetic questions, unassuaged,
Become a litany, a quiet creed,
Of faith in fables, constantly presaged,
By seeds of doubt that germinate and breed.
The chthonian murmur of the primal pain,
A syzygy of sorrow and of dread,
Reverberates within the mortal brain,
As sentient and fragile life is shed.
The fuliginous descent of gilded dreams,
A panoply of opulent decay,
Illuminates the ineluctable streams,
That bear all fleeting human hope away.
The solipsistic solace of the soul,
A tenuous, self-serving, frail design,
Pretends to seek a final, perfect whole,
While kneeling at a hollow, fractured shrine.
The diaphanous deception of the day,
Is but a prelude to the coming dark,
A brief and iridescent, false display,
That only serves to leave a deeper mark.
And so, we tread this futile, measured beat,
A palimpsest of sorrow and of song,
Until the final, absolute defeat,
Where silence echoes, and has reigned for long.
The eschatological dread, a quiet hum,
Beneath the friable surface of the mind,
Predicts the silent, final, empty sum,
Of all the transient futures of our kind.
The parallax of our perception’s scope,
Reveals a fractured, broken, grand design,
As we, with blind and feckless fervor, grope,
For meaning in a cosmos so malign.
The epistemic fracture, a deep divide,
Between the seen, and what we know is true,
Leaves no safe haven where the soul can hide,
From truths that slowly, surely, break anew.
The noumenal world, a distant, silent shore,
Is just a whisper on the dying wind,
While the phenomenal, we must explore,
The fractured, broken image of our kind.
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