Dear one,
The trial of your slow waning, is what haunts me like a wretched spirit. The way my dayly moments, that used to resonate with thy invaluable presence are dwindling like a destitute's wealth, renders me a maniac, ridden with an inexorable anguish. What am I supposed to do. I cannot lift these sacks of grief. Enfeebled by a dolour, tis like I'm fighting a lost battle, with a forlorn capacity. Nary a thought grips me still. Thine picturesque glance, the blithe cadence of thine lips, upon which I nurtured and reared banquets of poetry, now tend the flames of a halcyon past, that singes me with a rapacious melancholy. The throes of longing imprison and harass me till I'm cemented within a dank spite for myself, and ruefully discard any smidgen of reprieve. Beloved, I'm a convinced bearer of countless blunders I agree. Mine miserable apologies will only vacate the gasoline of thy peace. But a miniscule opening is all I seek. With reverent hope, I beseech thee. Indeed, for I will become a bane for myself without thy caress to redeem me.