WINE AND GATES
Sore Eyes Before The Lord Sometimes ...
salt in the mind of the mouth
pride has a dependancy of culture in the path
we select and arrange the miracle of a heart to gain pound
but love secrets away the sincerity that hath
a murder under the moonlight, the ashes of kindness
has a secret to our lips in the form of mystery on history's floor
this is the structure of strangeness that has the sense of hearing to bless
for mints in the heard moments, of a lasting mercy to quell, the foreign...
the stomach of exception is a wooly mere if played with
the right side of consideration, lacking the luck of wastes and the race of means to an end
this corner of causes is redeemed, for a life to make the need of reason of a kiss
know the monster, know the mother, know the life of a man to arrear mend
patience shows the sliver of a chance...
the tell tale whether in the grace, of mainly a stoic change of hearts to can
the liquor and the pickling of measures unknown, these bidden words have a dance
as the logic of method and the ache of simplicity, we know the neighbors for a one
murder shows the children of a slants...
the tooth of a pale rider on sorts of the flesh will with sombernesses again
this is your side of hell we have come to know and sew, the pyres of cant
this world of memories of the frustration of asked lores of any
why...
the tears of must than others in the wash of more, is a herald of consciences that be
being the mastery of new life, the source of denial...
is a lucre to seem, a lucky penny?
they don't know the answer, oblivion or obvious
but the chance remains, are we determined by our actions
and the role of murder in society a knowing purpose beyond well and thus
the secret returns with a glassy stare, made from the sweetest kind of signs...
unless the stale airs of a common decision
these concerned poignancies of the necessity's of here and naked now
are the face of misery to be an intrusion
even meat on the table knows how, to allow...
would you search the mind of insincerity for the cough of neglect in the sky?
is the home of candor your enemy, the touch of reality to void the kind of thing we fear?
does the natural world in its intimacy know the sex of religion for a sigh?
can we ever be together, the naieve toes of redemption that make us an eye to leer?
in the end ...
the face of God himself has never been seen, except for a hand of redoubt
the purity in a star or its order of angst to enliven not the such, but the send
of realism of drives of mind to the tongue of joy, to know innocense to how
epitaph to liberty in choices
the fury of heaven in the hand of man is an explanation of couldn't
the results of more than we can, know or work with, in the still of the dawn, voices
are worth courages of the realm that are the shroud of time, even if its shouldn't
pride has a dependancy of culture in the path
we select and arrange the miracle of a heart to gain pound
but love secrets away the sincerity that hath
a murder under the moonlight, the ashes of kindness
has a secret to our lips in the form of mystery on history's floor
this is the structure of strangeness that has the sense of hearing to bless
for mints in the heard moments, of a lasting mercy to quell, the foreign...
the stomach of exception is a wooly mere if played with
the right side of consideration, lacking the luck of wastes and the race of means to an end
this corner of causes is redeemed, for a life to make the need of reason of a kiss
know the monster, know the mother, know the life of a man to arrear mend
patience shows the sliver of a chance...
the tell tale whether in the grace, of mainly a stoic change of hearts to can
the liquor and the pickling of measures unknown, these bidden words have a dance
as the logic of method and the ache of simplicity, we know the neighbors for a one
murder shows the children of a slants...
the tooth of a pale rider on sorts of the flesh will with sombernesses again
this is your side of hell we have come to know and sew, the pyres of cant
this world of memories of the frustration of asked lores of any
why...
the tears of must than others in the wash of more, is a herald of consciences that be
being the mastery of new life, the source of denial...
is a lucre to seem, a lucky penny?
they don't know the answer, oblivion or obvious
but the chance remains, are we determined by our actions
and the role of murder in society a knowing purpose beyond well and thus
the secret returns with a glassy stare, made from the sweetest kind of signs...
unless the stale airs of a common decision
these concerned poignancies of the necessity's of here and naked now
are the face of misery to be an intrusion
even meat on the table knows how, to allow...
would you search the mind of insincerity for the cough of neglect in the sky?
is the home of candor your enemy, the touch of reality to void the kind of thing we fear?
does the natural world in its intimacy know the sex of religion for a sigh?
can we ever be together, the naieve toes of redemption that make us an eye to leer?
in the end ...
the face of God himself has never been seen, except for a hand of redoubt
the purity in a star or its order of angst to enliven not the such, but the send
of realism of drives of mind to the tongue of joy, to know innocense to how
epitaph to liberty in choices
the fury of heaven in the hand of man is an explanation of couldn't
the results of more than we can, know or work with, in the still of the dawn, voices
are worth courages of the realm that are the shroud of time, even if its shouldn't
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Sore Eyes Before The Lord Sometimes ...
Sore Eyes Before The Lord Sometimes ...