Death of sea.

They inebriate, me, I; culminate, they,
we; hear her blather, omniscient, she—
three; her, him, me, retract in woe,
in this prostration and exordium,
seven seconds of silence in soul.

When along came a knave;
sozzled, be weary of his cogs,
aback for now; revulsion,
in his redundant frames.

Befuddled, was she, in a dollop,
so, so dour, donning in surreal—

Two seconds of titter, when,
her discolored raiment,
met our vision, will it rain yet?
Willowy and ebullient she,
always liked the rain for free.

Now my interest erodes, a walk with he,
he the ghost, the ghost of me—

“Her and all ‘er trumpery” said he,
and a hint of brimstone about ‘er said me.

The gelid morning palace,
a walk beyond the trees,
to the forest with we.

Shall now imbibe, bacchanalian me,
“Sot!” scoffed he, then we find the sea,
a sea slathered in deep’st greens;
as he, akin to me, decided to see,
although appalling, the death of that sea.

I, now aloof, wouldn't follow that ghost,
the ether was thick, the moonlit souls;
all from their writ and away from their homes,
to see what of we, and that terrible she;
quaffing during the tedious of their dreams,
and as repugnant was that of she,
somehow I wished she’d joined me at sea.

When into the ebb I set myself free,
and followed the ghostly other of me.