Christopher Edison

 

The ensconcing repose of languor, as the body becomes lithically torpid and the mind imperviously oblivious, without the emancipating quaff of the Hadean waters of Lethe, nor a taste of Homer's nepenthes, is but a dream far too strange, for those conversent with disquiet. Even the weary rhetoric of soliloquy, harangues the soul, immures it within the mausoleum of deceased ideation, so that death, oh inexorable death, remains the only relief. The ordained lieu of relinquishment, is it heaven or the open grave, where shall I be inhumed, forevermore? Is it this very edifice, bountiful with fortune and yet, abundant with the cold of depression? I kneel upon the ebony floors, embracing the album of photographs which tether the reminiscence of pedigree, and I only feel the hypothermia of cruel forlornity. I clothe in the antiquated garb of my father's quintessence, but even in his death, the painted portraits of his caustic expression, suspended upon the wall, wry to my tears. The carpenter's legacy and manifold quires are my only companion, during these nights of empty vigil, but I dearly yearn, for commune with those whom I love, those who have departed yonder the coast. Dear lord, what is hope if not a cursed plerophory, charring the soul, into embers of unrequited surrender, imbibing our youth, from that bare cavity, which is loss. No more. The taught slipknot girds my neck presently, as I stand, giddily upon a mahogany chair. Soon I shall forge into suspension, under the reins of the rope and soon Christopher Edison, shall be no more, ALAS.