In The Serenity Of Thy Quiet

The days too eventually fell silent,

No sounds, not even by the crows,

All you could hear was the sound of,

Fear knocking on the doors,

And there was thine numbness that, besides the quiet of the pristine skyline so oft am I the captive of;

And so inevitably am I one for,

Whispers unto me ears that beseech almost secret a dialogue from thee.

Hath he been generous enough for allowing thou unto me,

And at needy times - me soul would implore rectification of some unknown kind for is the latter one me senses themselves art even vague strangers to, being himself to lead.

Oh me admiration so adorable in gloomy an hour as this! Had I not had thy presence this palpable afore,

Yet, had the grace been inherent a dweller not elsewhere; how oblivious of me consciousness! That in thy grasp at untoward a second on me hands,

Cosetted me thou like an infant born to you for the last,

Never did I venture on conceiving the same until thy grace was always distant a past.

Am I on me knees thou majestic splendour,

Yet, bearer am I not of an intention of receiving thine forgiveness straightaway for do I not demand for the same not ever will i.

How pompous of me rather again! What am I the begger to implore,

Yet, do I not implore for me needs. Do I not intend to rather die for perish will I me pride substitutes me stoicism at,

And do I bear for bear will I me predilection for the latter than conceiving devious a peril with the former?

I implore thy acceptance for me amnesty,

And do I not demand the same from thee.