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Poem
In my chambers where phantasmagoria undulate
    not as vigilant watchers but as mnemonic parasites
    I ruminate—
        no longer a singular entity but a disjointed duality
            my quintessence a quivering quasar
                ensnared in the nexus of nihility and internal conflagration

The air thick as unspoken grief
    souring decay wafts through breath
Each gasp a ghostly grasp
    carries utterances of the undead
Each breath invokes the séance
    each heartbeat conjurer's or responds—
        summoning ghouls that wear my face
            or is it I who seek them?

Oh how the walls wail
    not with tears but with the timidity of time
        gathering into pools of godforsaken memories
I plunge my quill
no, my very being
    into the abyss
        with each stroke
            do I pull truths or lies from the dark?
                With every stroke something emerges
                    do I summon them, or do they press of their own will?

Listen—
    the thread of time unravels
        its fraying edges tremble
            reaching for the past.

Time is no longer a devouring desolation
    but an endless ending-evolving flagellation
        leaving storm clouds of what once was.
In its depths dead faces rise—
    do I call them or do they find me?
    Hundreds thousands—
        not mere reflections
            but shades of silence where once there was song.
                They are not hellions haunting me
                    But figments I conjured
                        of a forgotten self I feared
and yet the self I begged to return
inviting dread I thought to escape.

Each visage holds a story gothic—
    a path abandoned, dreams left to diminish
        laments of laughter turned to sibilance
            the weight of choices left wrecked
                hectoring me for such is the price of indecision.

The heavens condemn—
    a sound older than obscurity
        thunders through my bones
            rumbles with ancient sorrows.
Its consonance is neither mocking nor cruel
    but indifferent eternal.

I am no bufoon
    or am I? The echo rings—
        but whose voice haunts these shadows?
        Am I a fragment cast adrift
            my mind twists--a sinuosity--
                or a storm badgering my mind?
                    It gathers in my chest—
                    but did I call this tempest forth?

Beneath my skin something stirs—
    cells rebel marrow microfractures flesh quakes.
I am not a miracle—
    I elucidate
        a delicate disassembly
            awaiting to reveal the reckoning of my existence.

Yet in this fury of decay
    a spark persists--
   not a signpost of hope
    but an act of defiance—
        nurtured by the doubts
            that threaten to extirpate me.
I am both eclipse and ember—
my light grazes the edges of oblivion
   yet I ponder— do I burn or do I fade…into what?
    an icy breath of inarticulate thoughts.
        a scintilla that burns
            even as stars collapse.
                
With pen as my rusted rapier
    And words as my ligneous shield
I carve a path through this maze of dread—
    each verse a ward
        each line a seal.
I won’t write myself into oblivion—
or is oblivion what I have begun to finsse?
Or is that the ink I spill?
        Each word is a tether or a snare
    writing me home
            or drawing me deeper into caliginous catacombs

For in this chiaroscuro of existence
    I obsess between ostracism and resurgence—
my voice a spectral vociferate, a fulgent flickering
that dances on the edges of reality, refusing to fade.
        but do I lurk or am I what lingers?
        The dream I wrought or the breathless awakening?
            Am I the night terror mapped from memory?
                or the one who splinters it upon waking—
yes I am the haunted and the haunter of my own soul
    or am I neither?

So let the abyssal fear arise-
My bleeding heart quakes beneath the weight
    do I summon them, or do they intrude
something creeping unbidden into light?
I hold vigil in the abyss—
    not as a lighthouse guiding the lost
        but as an eagle owl’s egg—
            fragile, unbroken, yet untested—
               waiting to crack or waiting to hatch.
Not a warning,
    but a covenant.

For in the end aren't we all
    just powder kegs waiting to ignite?

And as the curtain falls
    on this endless stage
        remember dear wayfaring reader:

            in this world of quantum uncertainties
                the line between verity and illusion / delusion—
                    each poet's bard heartbeat conjures
                    a catharsis or a cataclysm—
                        benediction or malediction, genesis or terminus—
                            the tenuous threshold twixt lucidity and the lunacy—
and I—
    I am the ink-pulsing blood muse, the essence of all my fear...
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