Amnesty I Implore An Ear For

Beseech do I earnest an apology, for did I hurl infuriating a taste of disappointment to thee again; yet, not had I intended for the same. Holy grace of the heavens of the ages! art thou so allowed to confer similar an evasiveness to me, for am I meant for the same, or worse as thou may say. Will I do not trudge to the extents of the laments asking thine forgiveness for hath I known - the green of the fields is not what I can receive, but for the truth that conceives, ineluctable a stance in the meadows I heed, tis' that me sights, ones so weary now, ransack thine beauteous spectacle, one thee art the bearer of, for thine love is voiceless, but had it been so oft present for me in the times' rough.

Now my dear splash of probity, so oft have thou hurled the waters of thine loving showers unto me visage that, parched with muses of me own incandescence, is otherwise so caught a captive of a disappearing vagueness, that does it now get palpable, the intrigue to explicate thine beautifully captivating a visage to thee, for not is it less of an elixir to me. And yet I witness thine advent at the dark of the drowsy hour and does my brain ponder over inexplicable an affliction in the core, one that pesters somewhere too deep at the bottom.

There thou commence again as me fingers hurl down the letters of the defined world of literature, yet, lovely poetry is not what I weave for the nail traverses into intricate a bush of eternity, one can I not resuscitate from the labyrinth of; for is it a maze, the ways art the routes to the lands of reality in... but, not is me love quelled with a digression for the color does invite me attention - Ah! as it is, the yellow of the autumn.

"Thee callow a liar! rapprochement must thou not seek for an impostor of truth art thou. Do I not get thine predilection for me as so oft art thee remote, far too distant for me to even behold, and art thine sights into the clever clasps of the unknown captivity, at nearly the times I confer me presence at; yet, here thee commence thine speech of lies. Is art thy affections mere an epitome of notorious a veneer to me? May I be stabbing thee but have thou gifted no less of similarity to me, for chisel do thee, me soul, as for me rhapsodies art compelled with untoward a transit, dirges art the mere songs of the spring in the valleys of, and there I depart for me fingers art so aloof tracing secrets of me own on the transparent glasses of thine windows, yet, bereft of thou art they for translucent a facade they behold."