The Last

Panoplies of belated perturbation amass to vitiate the fastidious organization of thought,

attrition consumes before wrought, as didactic misfortunes become emanations of the sort,

ostentatious grok bore my new silence, yet a blazon of visceral atrophy decays my bastion island,

diffidence and disgust for the shell I am, livid am I, raped of solace and band,

the reliquary of my emotion is filled with bloodied black sand, sifted by trembling fingertips that barely can,

horizons deprived of warmth glimpsed with just a pan and the sun sets softly to entrap only her in a trance,

the her in which knows the birthright of an isolating lance, this oasis becomes scene to an eternal existential rant,

now a pine for the forfeit leaves me in a pant, and she too flees, tracking footsteps of blood that desiccates like paint,

yet there is no peel in the phantasmic eye to taint, a diurnal cycle of perpetual images, both solid and liquid without restraint,

an atoll rooted by veins, so departing footsteps tear from the ground as the final conquering pains,

with the subtle drizzle of the evening rain, a somatic agony arises, and you take your smile off to the water in shame,

enervated and once abandoned by me just the same, whilst I drowned in my own ocean, you had already came,

so the last I said, to you, my only flame, see my words now and know what’s written in the light casted only by your name.