Poetry of the Unconscious (while listening to Beethoven's 5th, 2nd Mvt)

I cry my eyes to sleep, in deeper thought I weep... I cry because I can, my soulful verse it spans a wan...My childhood memories they keep me tranquil at night.

I cry myself to sleep in such waning moments fly. I cannot understand why...I love you so much memory. I feel compressed of sought in invigorated irony. Why molest me.

Do not shatter my banter, memories wanker, plains of sight to see. My eyes they cry the memory of a sought-out forgotten majesty. Melancholy is only there for the heart to see.

Such illusion, such exclusion, such varass perversity. Such a time to remember as dying embers were to rhapsody. Oh I exclaim the words that claim purity over adversity. In such disdain I will complain myself to my master's mastery.

I dwell, thus I spell my name in worldless letters. I am fettered, I am fettered with such whilstful everetter. I cry, I feel, I remember. Like the yesteryear dying ember in that moment on that black December.

I remember I remember all the pain and joy that sembers. Please remember, please remember of the times I was a splendor. My eyes they cry all I remember of the past in plain I send her. Whilst in fury, whilst in jury, please forgive all I remember.

I walk a disconcerted walk past the trees of magic bark. They look down on me and tell me, "Dear, do you remember how you used to be. Such a galant lad with swiftful melody." A young buck renders memories of yesteryear, "A child of God of profugal melodear."

"I cannot, I must admit." I reply without a hint. But the tree it looks down on me and prevails in bringing homage to my past, my hidden secrets, all my essence there to seek it and explore it; bring the aura of my laurence.

"Preserve my innocence," thus I speaketh. "It's too late for that to reapeth". I repeated my words once more with such ever sending blasphmore, that the trees were taken aback, in my utter sounding sleeketh, meaneth not forseeketh in my ever sounding secret.

Thus they mourneth, and they scourneth, and the memory they keepeth, of the time I was a child, a lad, with no demeaning secrets. Thus they know, need not explore my mind and thus they weepeth...

I cry myself to sleep tonight and thus I keep no secrets. For the trees they know my soul as they remember, speaketh, truth about my lovely past, my essence, my ever-troubled secret.

I remember, I remember and I cry in such sweet splendor. I thus cry without surrender in this ever-founding splendor...