Oh poor self! Why has thou'st chain thyself to the boulders with shackles so adorably great?
A'watching the sea before thee, and see nothing but the passing waves so favorably innate.
But oh for the calming oceans possesses not a single mind, for the treacherous waves may seek,
And inflict wholesome pains upon your very chests, clashing thy knees until 'tis inevitably weak.
And so, shall you clench your heart and hope and pray that the greatest of waves has passed,
But be'st faithful thinking, brings only falsified hope for sorrows comes not in singles but in greater mass.
Oh dearest ****** daggers, why must thy unservantly float about 'tis lingering sky?
For as I ponder amongst the lonesome land, and you draw'st the very blood of my.
What impairly sharp and piercing pain has thy minute item brought to this very scene,
As its lingering blade still smirks at the blood of thy as you, against the solid wall a'lean.
Dearest faithful God, for where has thy gone? Where has thy hidden and danced a'lost to?
Where dearest God are you to see this lonely site? Oh dearest God, where indeed are you?
Oh maybe, could I have walked a'stray from the paths of solitude and faithful regime?
Or have I wandered amongst the darkest skies for which your being sees not here it seems?
Or even maybe, thy'st has now gracefully turn'st thy back away from this lonesome world,
For us bittering, faithless humans has pressed hard enough on the earth with our silly whorled.
