WINE AND GATES
Night Coming On And No Tale Tell's Trying...
trees of ash, turn of minds
in the dark, the still living comment
of creation for the sake of better times
the till of worth for the sincerity of relent
falling, knowing the sigh's of then
the blessing of reason, to the fore of right
this person of works unknown, is a lover, a sheep to find
the pale mercy in the keeping moonlight
watch and be amused, if not the lip of some
come for the nature of earnest thought, on the matter
the fury of succor in the distance to our kind, the collected hum
of an angry flame, to know the novelty of survival of the adder
which and wonder, the match and the mouth
the stick of regret in the sitting of the non
in these worlds do we remember, the honor of vice over proud
ways of the senses, till these ashes are meant for wrong...
the count quickens, one tree than two
the stir of echoes and their host, for you to live
in the shame of mine, the shadows of courage for a ply, who
is to play the fool, when all we have is a heart to give?
sands of time, the suicide of the simplest of gall's
gaiety, if not the anxious, to keep a demeanor of silence for your here
the stale reality of a star in your eyes, the succor of likes and all's
of a question from a place unknown, "how are we a dream, if all we do is fear?"
strange, the thunder meant for me, the still thriving glare of onus
that said the reasons of love for a thing, than a think of cause
does this marvel of liberty's sought, know the accompany of days to discuss
will we ever be as the heaven's, the turn of may into the metal of haven't us...
one last note, from a miserable sunshine on the eaves of night
the talking doors, the thieving odors, the tragedy of ours
is a light in the east for our minds to create a new one, the price of tight
ways of should, the myth of odd tales of calm, in the fist of what was, powers?
in the dark, the still living comment
of creation for the sake of better times
the till of worth for the sincerity of relent
falling, knowing the sigh's of then
the blessing of reason, to the fore of right
this person of works unknown, is a lover, a sheep to find
the pale mercy in the keeping moonlight
watch and be amused, if not the lip of some
come for the nature of earnest thought, on the matter
the fury of succor in the distance to our kind, the collected hum
of an angry flame, to know the novelty of survival of the adder
which and wonder, the match and the mouth
the stick of regret in the sitting of the non
in these worlds do we remember, the honor of vice over proud
ways of the senses, till these ashes are meant for wrong...
the count quickens, one tree than two
the stir of echoes and their host, for you to live
in the shame of mine, the shadows of courage for a ply, who
is to play the fool, when all we have is a heart to give?
sands of time, the suicide of the simplest of gall's
gaiety, if not the anxious, to keep a demeanor of silence for your here
the stale reality of a star in your eyes, the succor of likes and all's
of a question from a place unknown, "how are we a dream, if all we do is fear?"
strange, the thunder meant for me, the still thriving glare of onus
that said the reasons of love for a thing, than a think of cause
does this marvel of liberty's sought, know the accompany of days to discuss
will we ever be as the heaven's, the turn of may into the metal of haven't us...
one last note, from a miserable sunshine on the eaves of night
the talking doors, the thieving odors, the tragedy of ours
is a light in the east for our minds to create a new one, the price of tight
ways of should, the myth of odd tales of calm, in the fist of what was, powers?
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Night Coming On And No Tale Tell`s Trying...
Night Coming On And No Tale Tell`s Trying...