```html Epithalamiast: A Resonance

Epithalamiast

The rain, a silver whisper on the obsidian glass,
Reflects not skies, but fragments of a forgotten mass.
Each drop, a tiny echo of a presence lost,
A yearning for a language only memory’s ghost knows most.
The air itself vibrates with a hesitancy,
As if the silence held a desperate, searching plea.
A resonance, not of sound, but of the soul’s decree,
To unravel what was woven in eternity.
Temporal Shift: 1887 - The Weaver's Loom
And I, a collector of these transient hues,
Attempt to capture fleeting moments, before they fuse.
To hold the weight of absence, the exquisite ache,
Within the fragile vessel of a waking dream awake.
It’s not a portrait, but a mapping of the void,
A cartography of longing, meticulously deployed.
Each line a thread of sorrow, spun with silver light,
A testament to what vanished in the endless night.
Temporal Shift: 1542 - The Cartographer's Cipher
The stone remembers, though it speaks in muted tones,
Of rituals performed beneath the watchful moons.
Of offerings delivered to the unseen thrones,
And the slow, deliberate dance of forgotten runes.
I trace their patterns with a trembling hand,
Seeking the key to unlock this submerged land,
A kingdom built on whispers, on the shifting sand,
Where truth and illusion eternally expand.
Temporal Shift: 1923 - The Archivist’s Fragment
Is this a lament for what was never truly there,
Or a preparation for a reality beyond compare?
A descent into the heart of the labyrinthine deep,
Where logic ceases, and the self begins to sleep.
The rain continues its relentless, silver flow,
Washing away the vestiges of what we know,
Revealing only the insistent, haunting glow,
Of a presence that refuses to let us go.
Temporal Shift: 1666 - The Alchemist's Revelation
Let the echoes multiply, let the resonances grow,
Until they coalesce into a single, shimmering show.
A tapestry of fragments, woven with despair,
A prayer, a question, hanging in the silent air.
I am the witness, the vessel, the flawed design,
Lost in the currents of a timeless, shifting line.
And in this dissolution, I find a strange, sweet sign,
Of belonging to a beauty that will never decline.
Temporal Shift: 2042 - The Synthesizer's Pulse
The sensation is akin to swimming through molasses,
A viscous, weighted stillness, profoundly slow.
Each breath a conscious act, each movement measured and deep,
As if the very fabric of existence were starting to weep.
And the rain, it answers, a chorus of muted sighs,
As if it too remembers lost, forgotten skies.
This is the Epithalamiast, the yearning, the plea,
To return to the source, to finally be free.
Echo: “The Weaver waits…”
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