I could not whisper the story
Tongue touched,
a diaphanous zephyr of ephemeral desire,
rustles the parchment of our sepulchral scripture,
where our connubial covenant is inscribed,
in the cryptographic ledger of the damned,
and the whispers of the ancients,
echo through the labyrinthine corridors,
of the underworld.
Your lips,
a vermilion velvet of hyperemic passion,
anoint our union with the haematoid blood of Elysium,
consecrating our entwined destinies,
within the cryptic cenotaph of the heart,
where the lethiferous weights of existence,
hang precariously in the balance.
Together,
we waltz,
hand in hand,
through the tenebrous tapestry of Chronos,
our love an ephemeral eclipse of solipsism.
In this eternal,
ephemeral dance,
we are the cryptic ciphers of the nocturnal,
our love a funeral pyre that illuminates the desolate,
luminous landscape of the Chthonic River of Styx.
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