The Woes of Edmund

The maculate tincture of sardonic prejudice, dampens, even the most casual repose of expression, so that, in the physiognomy of our subject, the abject inhumation of nihilistic putrescence, of unconditional despair, the former ideals of the soul, are vacant. It is not loss, itself that must suffice, the hypothermic dispassion of the unrequited Quixote, but it is the ensuing soliloquy of abnegating oath, the death of the unconsoled child, when inured to abysmal 'devoidism'. On the many accounts of poignant indulgence, very few poems, of exquisite craft are brought to mind, but I shall spare a single unsolicited verse,

Dishevel the glomeration of thought,

Leave this prism of abject untaut

And lay bare, the effluvium of rot,

For my heart inundates with naught,

But the unclotted absence of love, earnestly sought,

Ah I remember, it was the words of an old friend, Edmund, a bard (or perchance a dark horse) of abstract menace and unbridled temperament. I fancy that, he loved a maiden, but the maiden, was not mutually affected, by the sentiments of romance, preferring rather, the austere consortship of a platonic rapport. He became delirious with passion, until its singular magnitude, made him abundantly weary. The misanthropic ensconce of his imperviously solitary brood, evinced some novel fascination with the desolate and morbid.

"All the wealth in the world, and all this love in my heart, and yet I cannot make, Bella my own." These were the only words, ever imbibed from the tenebrous nest of his bosom, during that autumn, and at length he only bore, the corrugated, wry countenance of utter dispassion. Bella, would wed abroad, but as for Edmund, i would never see, his person again, and his family could not designate his whereabouts. Only a quire of songs remained in his chamber, as vestige of his laments.