The none of things

 

The visceral throttle of merciless carnage, has usurped, the proximity of the ordained prospect, that of all things unfathomable, into the blackened testimony of a slaughtered sun. It is the chagrin of unrequited passion, that ills the lover, into a chronic anhedonia of night, but there remains uncharted the unsullied lore, of the evanescent sun inhumed into the obsedian terrene of despair. To love is to imbibe, the crimson venom of the dear one, and succumb to the incarnation of devils, or perhaps the necromancy of the fallen. Without cause, nor purpose we are abandoned, betrayed by the illumination which once dawned, our summer, with youthful lust. Now we wander, in desolation for the Lethean draught of oblivion, for the memories of imbued carnality, have ridden us, of contentment. Our love has been betrayed, alas!