Pulse of the Poet's Abyss

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...