Requiem : Vacuity
The cicatrix of treachery hath finally closed, leaving behind a hide more durable than the velvet folly of youth. In the cold light of a wintered reason, there is marvel that a phantom of such slight substance could have ever drawn blood. A curious anatomy of grace exists, feeling the pulse of recovery thrumming where a poisoned bodkin once rested.
The memory of ushering a hollow frame into the presence of a venerable progenitor brings a crimson tide of shame. To have brought a creature of such base metal before the architect of a lineage is a lapse in judgment for which lifelong penance must be done. A seat at a table of gold was offered, yet there was only capability for scavenging crumbs in the gutter.
How egregiously the map of a soul was misread, mistaking silence for depth when there was but the vast, echoing cavern of an unlettered mind. A wealth of wit and a treasury of learning existed that could never be appraised, let alone possessed. There is a scholarship of the celestial spheres, while there is but a grub burrowing in the damp, dark earth of base appetites.
Existence is a litany of carnal demands, a frantic dance for the gaze of the masses that betrays a famine within. A philautia, a self-idolatry so profound, acts as a miasma, sickening the few wretches forced to dwell within an inner court. The rot beneath the gilding is visible, the skeletal vanity that fuels every shallow breath.
A mirage of excellence stands, a painted cloth depicting a beauty not truly held. Upon closer inspection, the pigment cracks and the threads are frayed; there is no masterpiece despite what a looking-glass falsely whispers. The image is as fleeting as the dew upon a hemlock leaf, bitter to the taste and fatal to the touch of the unwary.
A kindness would be to tend to the paucity of tresses, for a scalp mirrors the barren wasteland of an intellect. Rather than seeking the transient heat of the bedchamber, perhaps a single seed of utility should be planted within that hollowed mazzard. A brain so uncultivated is a tragedy that even the most skillful playwright could not render into a comedy.
The future is a sepulcher of penury, for dignity was traded for the fleeting coins of momentary pleasure. A professional mendicant, a silken parasite must needs lean upon the arm of some luckless "gallant" to keep a head above the rising tide of insolvency. Without a host to drain, there is but a shadow, shivering in the cold.
Farewell to this malodorous chapter of history. There is a return to studies and status, elevated by the mere act of shedding an acquaintance. The low places shall remain inhabited, a cautionary tale whispered in the corridors of the learned, while the very cadence of a name is forgotten.