May Thou Be Me Ambience As Me Eyes Slumber For Good

Time was running out, and stayed my feet so clenched with ye brown of the soil so repulsive! Must I tell lest it is misinterpreted - not did they admire the brown, nor ye dessert stood they clasped amidst the wilderness of, yet, could they be beheld so immobile! so ceased, halcyon a retrospection could not be further pleased, for them, to strive.

'Twas a cascade of such cumbersome chaos descending nearby, and were there, ye leaves of autumn conceiving the elegies of their own for were they departing soon, and could the turquoise of ye forthcoming dusk be beheld as so sublime a spectacle from yonder, the place I stood, so stiff and deceased...right there with ye admiration of mine fading into an abode was I so unaware of the presence of, further and further from the woods of mine.

Thou behold, can thee? Is that slipping betwixt ye spaces, so narrow, of my fingers; may I kindly hath thine ears bereft of deafness now? Thou see for thyself, may thee be so elated for so oft hath thou adored to behold ye imprecations of such ugliness befall me; must thou be so ecstatic with the delight of some kind that can no exhilaration at its utmost ever come to fathom, art thou not? So may thou visualise with the utmost of ye light brought into thy eyes that am I being defeated, and so defeated am I that stand I with irreparable a loss, and me breaths clinging on ye fingertips of me both hands; So may thee be not bothered to bother conceiving the pleasure of thine ruthless victory of pride for thee won and lost I, and may thou win and may lose I for oh! am I so blinded to behold some conjurer thrive; And must thee, with ye petals - ah! so bright with ye colours of red, green, yellow, and blue descending right on thine cloak of velvet, be so honoured! Yet, will I not let me lenity to perish in ye feet of some merciless soul of incorrigibility, and hence, 'twill be divulged from my core - must thou behold above! There dawns a fall of ye colours in lieu, evasive may thou be to descry but, ineluctable a fall is it, too in motion to be denied. Look! Ponder yonder! can thee not behold ye arid nothingness but, the branches so seized with their green? Art thee blind enough to not behold, and remain blind, many souls in disguise - the art they the poets with their eyes rendered to bleed, the art they the painters with their fingers chiselled, and must I confess that am I no poet, nor a painter am I but, do I perceive ye advent of lameness of such similarity in me...but runs the time afar, as alters the transparence of my eyes into a red so bloody! as remain, I, admiring the yellow of ye dandelions betwixt ye green of ye laurel...