Unveiling Dawn

To dispel the glomerating wisp of doubt, and ultimately disavow the ludicrous juxtapositions, proposed audibly from the subliminal labyrinth of disquiet, I must solemnly incise its pith. It is to expose a wound, beneath the buoyant altitudes of impending paroxysm, and thus give some form of commiseration, to my exsanguious bosom. The years go by, in the shoreless unjoy of winter, no lucid dichotomy between night and day, and not a surmounting vestige for salvage. The air is cold, and the conversing legions of dysphoria, gyrate in the gulf of monochromatic despair, descending like the last sands of the hourglass, as they adumbrate our death. I find that the tendons of aspiration, have given me a clasp of fortitude, and yet the cadence of the black sun, of my soul, is without ascent.