With Thine Lexical - An Utterance...

In the end, it was just me and me thoughts, painful a trap, long after thou were gone, yet, do thee not see me labyrinth have I created for myself. "Probable is it to me now that thou art scrounging for thine presence amidst cumbersome a chaos - a cacophony is it as thee may behold, and art thine eyes so evasive a pair to heed. Oh dear eyes seeking not a kinship that is not but, beautiful for do they ransack one that conceives in the utmost of the doomsday, indomitable a perseverance for thine truth. 

Is it ineluctable me eavesdropper! strident may it be for bitter must every truth be - art thine eyes servile, so servile that art they so blind to behold lest told to let the closure cease; yet, what is it that is to none but, merely a muse to them and is it a muse to them merely? oh, not do I intend attending those splashes of thine tears for have thou let betrayal be hurled to thine act of attending mine, yet, vengeful am I not for is revenge not what I seek. Pleasure of beholding the leaves I search, ones that, wilting not by peril but, the sense of addressing the heavens, bear pearls of the of the elixir indeed; pleasure of the death I admire, one not of me soul but, perpetual a lethargy that, viscous as honey may be, yet, clever in being engulfed for enigmatic a reason that is to me, lies embodied deep within; and pleasure of as soothing a chaos, too distant to me, do I await regardless of ineluctable a truth that art me ears not meant for the latter and do they undeniably sink in, but, inevitable is the pleasure of having palpable, the sound of distant a traffic. 

May I not be the one that thine eyes seek, yet, have I conferred as beautiful an advent to them as a the glint of a departing twilight is, and do I do for am I inexplicably aware of the love thou art the bearer of, one thee lay for none but, me; know it me dear have the pavings have I conceived not been the ones of grants, but, of perpetual a faith that divulges that one must come, as weary a traveller delves interior in delicate a clasp of me bower that I lay for thou, be it for the ugly, to still be. "