The Artisan Movement

I'll have never meant a word.
Adversely, implications may well remain serious as a death march if in infinite reprise.
Funeral strings quiver in anticipation of this:
The quiet declaration of an auditory epitaph
As dire romantic symbolists ready final muted breaths.
But still words that roll off lips spill upon soil without a sound,
True intentions bound to canvas inherently incapable of comprehension.
Tired hearts lie in the umbra of the ink stains so long as seers choose to view it black.
Let noted observations permeate long vacant stares.
We, the ocean, awash incognizance with waves,
Bury nescience shifthing sand.
Forego recitation in favour of the flood, incarnation of plight.
Now if victims could just keep their heads up long enough to remember the soundscape immersion might not tarnish the evening...
A preceding void if filled by expressions of comprehension should perchance instill a sense of oft lost and faltering assurance.
Overworked thoughts less external reinforcement grow forgetful of their pertinence until stated less remembrance.
This the enigma, intensified with each insolvent resurgence,
Unraveled by a well placed word of relevance.
We'll entertain the socialites with the untimely death of the artisan should words interrupt the affair.