WINE AND GATES
Lazy, And Now Done, Isolated Omission
brazen attempt
strange or odd, the scent of life
in worth, to a call of the lent
we see the kind of thine, the strife
in a handful of salt, we know your fault
the care of conclusions that have the time
be it waiting for flowers or the throw of light which all's
treasure the sour need of charisma, to be the tongue behind the rhyme
she's and me's
half a sole, for the other half
the bother of when's and the threat of heed
to know a prayer of sincerity of a laugh
but where is the fun in that?
somber news of a future in love with nothing
the late forced and sometimes guilty look of history, for rates
of cancelled thoughts, neglect of a song of loving
but where is the fun in that?
the laughing host of continued done
is somewhere else in the room of simplicities sat
the form of our pressure, even pleasure is simply come
but where is the fun in that?
till we are, the push of oblivion is far off
for a child of rages and the myth of another what
the deed in the total of faces to deliver the scorn of a cough
but wearing is the fun in that...
cloth of a gestured hope is no joke
but to burn in the heat of ordinary liberty, spat
is a world on the verge of faith no more than the poke?
strange or odd, the scent of life
in worth, to a call of the lent
we see the kind of thine, the strife
in a handful of salt, we know your fault
the care of conclusions that have the time
be it waiting for flowers or the throw of light which all's
treasure the sour need of charisma, to be the tongue behind the rhyme
she's and me's
half a sole, for the other half
the bother of when's and the threat of heed
to know a prayer of sincerity of a laugh
but where is the fun in that?
somber news of a future in love with nothing
the late forced and sometimes guilty look of history, for rates
of cancelled thoughts, neglect of a song of loving
but where is the fun in that?
the laughing host of continued done
is somewhere else in the room of simplicities sat
the form of our pressure, even pleasure is simply come
but where is the fun in that?
till we are, the push of oblivion is far off
for a child of rages and the myth of another what
the deed in the total of faces to deliver the scorn of a cough
but wearing is the fun in that...
cloth of a gestured hope is no joke
but to burn in the heat of ordinary liberty, spat
is a world on the verge of faith no more than the poke?
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Lazy, And Now Done, Isolated Omission
Lazy, And Now Done, Isolated Omission
