Traversing Through A Labyrinth

The fragrance of me childhood,

Hides in the folds of thine embrace,

Me grins of the ancient times,

Why! were they not thine utmost pleasures would thou beseech,

Oh! so inevitably would thee be for the entirety held at the stake,

Every probability would have the dominance over,

And with the anticipation of receiving nothing in certain an aftermath?

Were thou indeed ineluctable a captive of the ambience that would,

Merely for thee, be terribly pliant to what me smile would confer;

Oh! perpetual gratitude for thee!

Perpetual a gratitude must it be, one am I so afflicted a possessor of lately.

Do I reminisce 'em all in the hours of the times afore for

Oh! how oft and so oft would thee eavesdrop

For the smidgen of a glint of amusing a convulsion on the visage,

Am I the one to wear the mere veneer of,

Hath so oft been the crux of every conference in me brain.

Do I conceive 'em all in me retrospection

For thine love is not the kind I would be rewarded with,

For what thou had is not what thee have indeed,

And for the affection that cossetted is not,

But distant a nostalgia of the green to me.

How green a grass and blue was indeed the sky;

Art they seemingly the remains of some carved out manuscript merely,

As ancient as time itself is and is it uncertainly unknown an entity of significance to me...

Yet, undeniably is it that voids art the residents in the arena of the scars unseen...