Ye Love I Found

Art changing seasons now making me hark, ones 'twere both unseen and foreseen, and against all betwixt ye glamour of such vibrancy, am I captivated to a shade so grey - 'tis thy place to stay. On the land of such auburn a soil, and amidst ye absence of lush a green would I otherwise be so satiated with, enough would be merely single a glimpse of, where I now, shackles of a duty that perceive I in me - yet, thy eyes seek ye bruise in them; 'tis repulsive for thee to open thy eyes to, must they be so wary of merely beholding - may thee know that am I not blind to what thou see. Wonder I so oft in these hours lapse of which I witness from so close, if bears thy memory, ye irony of both our amusement, merely that buried in the same somewhere deep in me and despise I anyone delving in - 'tis me the honor of beholding ye contortion of thy pallor into a sweet smile, indeed, 'tis me honor for is it like the shoots of tender plants on a spring morning.

Own I no wealth that owes can I to thee, 'twill be a void so black if thee dare to see; hath I on, a cloak wears that a yellow shade - ah! how well am I aware of everything thee disapprove and keep I me shoulders covered now for thee; heralds of such ugliness do I encounter, and can I parry, 'tis that prefer I its visage to evasiveness.

How beauteous seems that second of ye touch of thy hands - more of me poignancy than nostalgia now. Ah! did I hath ye awareness befall me, an utterance hath I averted uttering so long hitherto - I miss telling art thee so beautiful. 

Too tired is ye entirety of me soul me heart! and may thou see that I crawl now, no longer on me feet of such imperious vanity! a conceit so gory in me veins! so ruthless a glory that is it one so meaningless. Dear, alack! ye sequin holding thy scarf shines for no longer a time, 'tis on flames now.

But ye torquoise of such a clandestine tryst of ours is shade I admire merely a little more, subtly art we brushed...

so as our hand's touch. 

Such wilderness, parched aridity and thorns for ye mere cover of the green, yet, 'tis couldn't be bereft of grace for us to find love in a hopeless place.