Gross Grandeur

Nectarous taste would not surcease in torture now that’s my showpiece; I sit in a hard chair pallid, there’s solace in something solid; Give fine obeisance to the madness, decayed memories savor sadness; Such enmity in your answer, the pinnacle of gross grandeur; Your lotion now my nepenthe, letting me drown so easily; Rocking on this rickety porch, that scent hits me like a blowtorch; Alone, I want to be swaddled in each moment that we bottled; I’m locked in a living tomb rusted with such a stale gloom; Filthy stench, can you smell it? Perfume for some to covet; In a cataleptic state circumvention seen too late; Doppelgänger could not withdraw, prose signed ‘Edgar Ravenclaw’.