Ash and Kindling: A Metaphysical Lament

A ballad from lives unnumbered seeps through the osseous fabric,
an aquarium of time where thought-swimmers drift beneath newborn memories.
My blue flower — that ineffable cipher — burns in liturgical silence,
its vapours breathing galaxies into the atrium of becoming.

Chapter 1: Elegy of the Vigil: The Birth of an Illusory Sun

You heard, but hearing unwed to listening

It is the cataract that veils the eye of the sea.

And so the serpent coils in the katabatic cradle of our unwept stages—

a hieratic sentinel or deceiver of nameless thresholds.

The bridge of sapiential longing, severed by your left shadow.

You hurled to the precipice when you might have been an anabatic sanctuary. 

Sculpted the soul with the chisel of absence:  

Spiral-bearer — into the orphic wind of lucidity.

Each strike, a litany to the Invisible Hand that does not err.

Waited — not for you,

But for the one who lifts without possessing —

The One-Who-Sees, whose gaze dissolves the silk of semblance without rupture.
 

Wistful lyre of time undone, 

Whimsical harp of cracked chronology, 

Here, art becomes an act of anamnesis. 

Your lament pierces the skin of being like a forsaken benediction.

The eye parts the real from its husk; the hands trace what fades away.

Still, I cannot summon what wilted before it opened.

I reach in vain for what perished unborn.

Arise — unburned — and Imark your utilitarian reductionism.

...

But none beheld its gospel.

Now the green world shrinks to bone,

and breath — that great ancestral breath — dissolves into silence with me.

I bow, and bless the wound..

Receive with the Totality of Being.

A satire of sacred symphony —

And I, a broken lyre "in the market of forgotten gods.".

Melt into the waxen hush of moonlight,

and the world sifts its dust through me.

From its hidden calyx arise vapours without number.

As time passed, that fugitive harpist brushed my hair in play,

Whispering: Tomorrow does not lodge in this hour.

As the copper-leaved elegy of autumn

settled into the loam,

And your songs were adopted

by the birds of Paradise, who do not return.

With each footfall, unsealed another gate —

And in a kiss of fire, we embraced the feigned Absolute.

But carnal love—unmoored from spirit—is fog and mire,

a sacrament gone orphaned,

If the soul, untethered, slips into the void.

Burned with you, composing hymns of mystical rhyme,

Each verse is an annunciation.

Beheld you as my bridegroom —

In a blazing vow,:

Stay — for you are all my love has left untouched.

And the Spirit hovered in stillness above,

While the wan stars, trembling, whispered:

What has pierced this sacred hush? 

My quill — distilled not from ore nor minted alloy,

But conjured in the hush-mill where silence wears the robes of forgotten priests.

A psalm unsung, loitering among ruins that giggle at history,

While kings audit their coffers

And elders... misplace the constellations.

Rekindled  — where we spoke of love and the Hidden One.

With the epiphanic hunger of exiles 

whose fire was never mechanized.

But now I melt again — into salt, into hush,

extinguished in the cathedral of this verse,

starved by echoes of the Paradise, too shy to return.

You still shimmer — secreted within,

but nightfall has grown prophetic in its doubt,

And by Jesus, I am taken —

What breath remains beyond this final dusk?

Remain youth-shaped —

not by flesh, but by the echo of its vanishing.

Time has etched quiet obsequies along my brow,

And what binds us now

is not embraced,

But the afterimage of a question —

a filament of accident,

a quivering held in the parentheses of thought.

Why cast me into the abyss

When you might have been canopy, threshold, or breath?

Why do your arms still burn with phantom warmth

If love is no longer yours to wield?

Chapter 2: The Cathedral of Bone

Scents arise — vinyl and vellum,

vanilla, cinnamon, jasmine, ginger —

a liturgy of perfumes: amber, musk, sandalwood, olive.

A piercing green—spectral, untranslatable theophany.

"The heavens dimmed behind my ribs".

Sealed within a poem of modern exhalation.

And lo: the wind reared as desert conflagration.

There, in soil scorched by paradox,

A tender acacia,

Three conflagrations from a single ember:

— one baptised by pride,

— one choreographed by Thanatos,

— one seduced by the mirage of an overreaching dream.

The night — an insomnia without referent —

swaddled in autumn's anorexic vestments,

where even time forgot how to shiver.

Your soul: a famished reliquary,

It's succubus lumen devoured

by the labyrinthine folds of the unsummoned psyche.

That immoral mask you wear —

tinctured in mortuary verdigris,

arrogant as an incubus.

You advance —

a parable of chlorophyll incinerated

beneath suns that remember prophecies

no longer spoken aloud.

Thus, my beloved emerged,

In a rapture too neurotic for revelation —

like an oak sundered

by the melancholia of thunder.

Waters of Genesis alter their syntax mid-sentence,

and the dreamer, careless of oracles —

It's submerged in grammar, not meant for the living.

I abide beneath the phantom of your mistress —

into the calcium of my being.

Love: ossified fountainhead.

Brick: splintered remnant

on a pilgrim's path long since decommissioned.

At the border where milk forgets honey,

Two essences meandered through the ossuary of clocks.

Wingdust of mayflies disputing the silence of constellations—

You, lark masked as a nightingale,

perched on the sill of my cerebral abyss,

a fresco too divine for pigment,

Your absence incense in the chapel of unsaid things.

At the liminal seam of nous and pneuma,

a crystalline dissonance—

quartz weeping into diamond.

O my Christos agapē,

Baptize this paradox in your divine philia.

Chapter 3: The Pearl of Weeping: Memory of a Narcissus

I remember — vaguely, vividly —

An evocation: to harvest saline relics,

to string the opalescent lament into a singular gnosis —

An apocryphal pearl, born of sublunary weeping.

Unlace the corset of elegiac tension —

must forever wear

The ash-cloth of unconsummated tenderness?

Could you vest me, instead,

In the quiet vestments of the unspoken agape?

Let my eros be asylum —

Your gentleness, the blade that hollows thought

into a cloister of suspension.

But I remain sub-lunar,

you — meta-celestial,

enthroned in aether

Where grief has no grammar.

You — exiled into apotheosis.

If you un-become —

What syllables shall moor my becoming?

The principle of rhythm —

ancient, fractal, unseen —

The logoi in catharsis.

At the edge of dia- and nyx,

Lexicons falter.

Is it faith that quivers —

Or mere theogonic residue?

Still, I haunt the terminal station —

The sky bleeds in hieroglyphs of cobalt and carmine.

Now the anima mundi coils inward,

The rose folds, unnamed.

By lunar inversion, I transmute to wax —

Uninscribed, unconsumed, I remain 

a cipher,

awaiting your ineffable calligraphy.

Chapter 4: The Excommunication of Sophia

Prisoner to the self's interminable dialectic,

tethered in the ouroboric ritual of becoming—

a juggler of temporality: the unburied past,

The vanishing instant, the glimmer of teleological yearning.

Skilled I have become in amor's necrogeometry,

where love serves as both scalpel and reliquary.

Its blade: surgical, seraphic, savage.

It's a ruse: to veil cruelty in cherubic sweetness.

He foreclosed the unmediated theurgical ingress,

donning the raiments of a counterfeit hierophant,

whispering interdictions into the lambent hush—

branding the feminine as profane residue,

a vessel unworthy of the numinous.

Obedience: enthroned as the sola lex feminae;

Eros divine, eclipsed beneath the mortuary veil of doctrinal austerity.

The sanctuary of invocation—once liminal, translucent—

was reterritorialized via patriarchal fiat.

Authority became empire, not theosis;

Correction: epistemic conquest.

I wept—not just as a fragile icon.

The intellect, once an epiphanic vault,

Consigned to the chthonic crypts of disavowal.

He levied tax upon my contemplations,

transmuting sophianic resonance

into a currency of self-adoring nomenclature.

Terrified of the chalice, he shattered it—

And from its fractured curvature,

The sacrament still bleeds in invisible wine.

The betrayal was not merely epidermal—

A dislocation of vocation,

an anathema.

These pages weep in hieroglyphic scars—

tears inked in the alchemy of grief,

where each glyph reifies love-as-kenosis.

A palimpsest of wounded grace,

the codex quivers beneath the gravitas of memory's sacrarium.

In one hand, I cradle temporal ash.

In the other—

mnēmē theou.

Within these hands: the fruit of transubstantiation.

The bitter seed of Persephone—

Ambrosia enwreathed in pomegranate flame.

The forge of Hephaestus hums beneath my pulse,

its beat offset by the fluted breath of Apollo—

incarnation and elision,

violence and hymn, entwined.

One hand discloses the ontic;

The other, the abyssal silence of the apophatic.

This is the burden of exousia:

A soul bowed by the tension between the eros of genesis

and the agape of return.

Chapter 5: Born of Rubies: Theology of Courage

Out of rubies and irradiated sapphires,

A maiden formed herself from the detritus of dread.

Fear—cloaked in eidolic silk.

This girl, the first daughter of the Inferno mystery—

danced with the arrogance of veiled omnipotence,

Her steps were traced in the runes of the dark trinity:

deceit, wrath, and covetous mirroring.

Delicate as the fractured lily,

mirthful as a djinn—

She ensnared men in a skein of unanswerable riddles.

Fear, the enslaver of the noetic citadel,

distributes false dominions in dreams—

ephemeral crowns carved from smoke.

Her theurgy: an inverted Mass of desecration,

polluting the altar from which the Host once rose.

From false gems, monstrosities bloom—

Chimerae stitched from ontological wounds.

Madness, not kalokagathia.

Chapter 6: The Altar of Endurance: Metamorphosis into an Alchemical Soul

On the mournful promenade of remembrance,

footsteps fall like snow on obsidian—

soundless, but devastating

The blue flower—once enflamed with gentleness—

becomes the altar on which endurance is consummated.

The fool of love,

not bent by age, but by that which hovers—

The unbearable elsewhere of meaning.

Among hearts unblemished by cynicism,

Yet not as Oblatio viva.

Dreams—shattered, hurled upon the promontory of the now,

Pearls hang beneath a solitary star.

Butterflies ascend like questions.

The gulls arc through memory.

And Morgana laughs from behind her veil.

The torrid sun stares, unblinking,

upon its tragic lovers.

Once bent beneath my love for a man without a name,

Rise—a baptism in cosmic elementality.

The iconography of resurrection emerges—

Every wound: a psalm.

Every scar: a seal of sanctity.

Thou never saw the cathedral within—

Not until your silence ruptured its music.

But love is not extinguished; it transmutes.

From flesh to pneuma.

From wound to flute.

From fire to hymn.

Though thou wert but a glyph scrawled in flame—

I made an altar

and whispered Christ's full name.

Chapter 7: The Ancestral Voice

Within her own Satyricon,

Hestria chronicles this odyssey—

Fare thee well!

Categories: philosophy, psychology, theology, sociology, politics, culture, education

Genre: Interdisciplinary poems

Reading Level: University