WINE AND GATES
Last Stop Dare Before A Dynamite Sole's?
tryst
of wisdom in the guff of solemn known
them dole's of virtue, the stoic lip hissed
candor was a toe of youth's to howl
the lank origin of guile
gall was a unity of patience
the touch of could, wild
is a hero about to name the quaint of ends?
supplantation
these, those, the tang of this
that cant of bells show us a skin...
why, the mystery of a kindred in a kiss?
remember the catcher on the rye?
sing the song of proper stranger's?
wing past the crasser breed of Nye?
act upon the panic of youth's to show danger?
lords, of causes
lost in the dust of harmony knot
the risen pride of sights of odd
has the smell of a yearning blood?
prepare the dread, for a question of water
the tarry of sincerity to find, the tap of cliques
in the passion we adored, is your face so bitter?
that sugar was a folly of beginning or ending his...
presume the worst, for a smiling minute of condition's not
the watch of a tower of lurid intent, answered luck has us by the blinded
where the tart are a horror of soaring powers of what ought
rotten in the end, the mother of monkey untoward, shined times
care for the filched nose
stare at the belched lose
share on the helled cousin
scare of the welched hose...
of wisdom in the guff of solemn known
them dole's of virtue, the stoic lip hissed
candor was a toe of youth's to howl
the lank origin of guile
gall was a unity of patience
the touch of could, wild
is a hero about to name the quaint of ends?
supplantation
these, those, the tang of this
that cant of bells show us a skin...
why, the mystery of a kindred in a kiss?
remember the catcher on the rye?
sing the song of proper stranger's?
wing past the crasser breed of Nye?
act upon the panic of youth's to show danger?
lords, of causes
lost in the dust of harmony knot
the risen pride of sights of odd
has the smell of a yearning blood?
prepare the dread, for a question of water
the tarry of sincerity to find, the tap of cliques
in the passion we adored, is your face so bitter?
that sugar was a folly of beginning or ending his...
presume the worst, for a smiling minute of condition's not
the watch of a tower of lurid intent, answered luck has us by the blinded
where the tart are a horror of soaring powers of what ought
rotten in the end, the mother of monkey untoward, shined times
care for the filched nose
stare at the belched lose
share on the helled cousin
scare of the welched hose...
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Last Stop Dare Before A Dynamite Sole`s?
Last Stop Dare Before A Dynamite Sole`s?
