Lost Passion

Glory, gored…, all in antiquity and timelessness; all in your name.
A legacy, paramount; clouded, shrouded by unreason…
Straught with utmost despair;
Stricken, in hopeless desperation;
Grief-stricken., consumed by madness, looming…
Faintly glimmering,
Darkly glooming;
Ov what we are fated to do,
Ov what we are enfaced to become.,
Ov the toilsome venture we are to endure…,
To the tiresome ends, we agonise and oft hear,
Ov this ground we are made manifest,
Ov this grave we are resurfaced and confessed.,
Till’ the labour is recognised, and our hearts caressed;
Our legacies magnified…and our worrisome nature, epitomised.,
Thence-more, the vile mire of spirit is conflicted and perplexed,
… And the horrors moored, given to us, one final rest.,
Where-then, we are abounded, and warred against the god, –
Who made flesh manifest, in quintessential virtuoso,
We seem incapable of accepting finality, even amidst our best…,
Subsumed, the reckoning so ruinously tried and vest,
Profoundest, the iniquitous publiminality yearns for heights…,
Confound to wanting depths, reachlessly vitriol,
… And endlessly futile, of this I must attest.,
Life is unblessed, more a curse than a gift; death, the final frontier,
Encompasses all that is, nevermost awash the abased congruity,
Confused, the wonderment of awing sentience,
Beware, the plague that haunts the everlasting,
Harrower, the darkest consequence: ov life once lived and lost…,
Left to loathing and eternal unrest…

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