May Me Epistle Seem Enough...

Here now my dear, hath I intended thy advent in a little abode of me own for had been thy presence, inevitable captivity for me for has thine absence been more responsible for an infliction that I bore deep in me. Ah, for as pleasant sweetness as the smell of the daisies may be, do I crave for thou my dear; For as soothing a hand as one meant merely to caress, and to caress merely me may seemingly be, oh! am I not already servile to thee, the bearer of my heart! 'Tis undeniably corrupted in itself, and do I refuse to disagree for has my heart been so peculiar an entity to me... Do thou heed me - art who the one to intrigue me? Has my heart been no further paving led amidst a peccable wood but, has it been an entity to me, regardless of I bear in me...

Alas! too terrified am I for hath I lost accompaniments to me boredom; and do I fear losing thou to the same. Alack! do I despise trudging past this for am I aware of it at the end, traverse I over the same paving. Yet, must I tell thee for admirer am I one that may thou like having but, must I perish if perish I must with some known dignity. 

'Tis me word out to thee holy grace! am I so familiar to myself, yet, will I claim for what may conjure up as a digression for unfamiliarity is it to know myself at the same hour? Sinner am I of the deeds is my older self a bearer of, indeed, as may thee behold, art me hands bloody of sins! Indeed, as may thou scrounge for thyself on my skin, art there traces of fading lines leading to the mid of nowhere! Indeed, as may thee seek for must thou ransack the same at some hour of the day may I be so departed a soul in the seconds of; for mayhap, 'twill be intractable a kinship to decipher; thee behold! 'tis likey to be bitter but, must me love not to be tormented by its own admirer. Will I let it to be smooth for thee - will the utmost of me mysteries be rendered naked in a letter from me.

Mayhap, 'twill be thy advents in scant a quantity amidst the ones will I be addressing there, and be thine ears hurled bereft of deafness to my prayers the ones in plethora for 'tis not the laurels art me eyes the captive of but, the violet they conceive...

Mayhap, will I be bereft of me own shame, the latter borne merely for insignificant significances would be heeded sensical by meself amidst the ink in, the ink of a pen will I summon as me own and with whose seepage in the core lie, my own words to be the only company to my piece for the last, could I not venture naming as a poem...

Mayhap, then will the epistle not seek for will it not be besought to ransack for a sight that may happily intend clasping the hold of a plea, beseeching the same to merely see, but with a heart indeed....for will thine eyes behold me through my skin, the speech that will lay beneath the stillness will hath I conceived within, and mayhap, may the dryness of the maple bear, an echo of me reticence...