Overwhelmed by the acyrology 

Offered to aide against aporia 

Yet the poet is reinspired and scripturient 

 

The ideomania of compathy 

Accompanied by the echoed sounds of rubatosis 

Aeviternal, dreamstitched, episodic monachopsis 

 

Irrupted from a wordless grave 

Leaving behind the hole voided and emptied 

And in the spirits wake quiet, mournful weeping 

 

Frenetic with a farouche enervation 

Could all this just be fugacious? 

What if even with the attempt it'll become garrulous 

 

Can the poet regain the confidence to share 

Or is this resurrection meaningless, speechless 

Shall it be ephemeral, agowilt, cast into nullibicity 

 

Such an odd thing to want to die trying.........again.