what remains?

What still remains of poetics? divination of various symmetries? Or the lingering moments when the immensity of the night causes thee to weep, incessant. Devoid of jagged allegorical fonts, the words dribble down lilacs and the mythic poppies still garnered in these gardens of quiet withering with ache. I remain fleshing the goddess and ousting the damned Plums still perfume the arenas of thought I once sodomized for stillness. Yet, when dozing in quagmires of glister metaphors leech inward, and feign my attempts to entice salacious exiles In truth, I long for the terror of the Moon and for the thrush of eyes inexplicable to that of this dreary scribeof mere nothings.