My mind so foolish...

If I were to let myself voice what has been so palpable right inside my chest, would these hands I hath seize the chance;

Carved would be a portrait in words of true wisdom for hath my mind been too ordinary and too laudable art thou.

Do my eyes now behold this spell, ah! such a heavenly diatribe art thou capable of - was I torn with every syllable that did thine tongue form.

'Tis a shame. Thou find me here still.

"Have I no shame?" enquire I myself - must I answer thee as thou ask me the same.

Drowsy art my eyes now, yet chagrin mauls more significantly.

May I divulge it once more - the labyrinth has that been so intact all this while? 

Alas! fears my heart. Demands it that ascertain I foremost if any design of a chisel thy mind bears; I will ask for ask I must.

Lackaday! such terror surrounds now! yet, aloof it lies inside this body of mine. Has thy presence been so sweet for it to be detest all bitterness at the utmost.

Strange how it envisages the state of thuy heart. Ah! foul foolishness! Stench is it that pollutes my breath.

Wonder I if thou smell it too. Can you tell?

Did an hour elapse and soon were days passing me by. Swiftly did they come and leave in just a blink - intensified is my remorse for this time that I still waste;

will I ever learn to be in a shape of thy fancy - with locks tied in single a chignon of my hair, my chemise taken into fugitive by the apparel thou wove for must I keep my own skin, and wrap my waist because oh! how gross is that curvature have I also come to behold? Can thou tell?

If I were to tell thou the truth, would I do it with pleasure of every kind.

If I were to show my edge of the spectacle, would I render my sight blinded. Might thou then infer the red on the surface. Has it been right on the surface since so long my dear. Why can't thou see?

Unregenerate as is thine perception, unruffled art thou to me - would a man not let his sister perish in ashes black otherwise!

How rash, how perfidious, how untouched hath thee been whilst all my daylight seeped that from betwixt a nimbus grey!

What a folly! what a folly! Ah! what a folly for heaven's sake! hath I been all on a parallel time. 'Tis a shame, is it not dear? 

Art the heavens making silver lines in the sky,

Followed by roaring sounds, 

So loud, could be heard and seen wondrously high, 

With bits of colossal shaking pounds.