WINE AND GATES

Sacred Tools And Radio's Earn Staid...

panic at the races
fire in the sides of the running
would the tarry of meat, be ok
if the sunshine in our time, gunning?

how?
the smell of cyanide in your hand
a warring spite in your stride, allow
the hum of selection of a sincere land

angels of a somber tree
know the where-about's of golden ideas
in the perdiem of voice, to the quick of heaven
we saw you sneeze, like the caring of a whistle in need

breath will remind
the tart terror of a tinny cough
is like a choice of flowers for the sublime
do you give one, per the stranger ought tough?

seldom is the wind more merry, though
as when the sport of the sun is made for you and merely a soul
guaranteed to act upon the nativity of been and owe
we search the primordial care of nations, for a name to surmise the old

why not be all it can be?
the future resides in your patience for a bird
of seldom kept promises and the act of fury to keep anarchy
this stare of ordeals, lets a soul be heard


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Sacred Tools And Radio`s Earn Staid...

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