WINE AND GATES
Butter And Beans Make You Fell Odor...?
town on fire
the words of a persistent case of dire eyes
we tell the truth, they tell the liar
is in the stir of demonstration for a new why
the look of a naïve soul
in the warranted water, the still of soap
is your fetish for the sulking of a whole
the only way to survive the begat hope?
a string of sausages, with my name on it?
the tired eyes of solemn means, for a wishful foot in the fire
is cant, the taunt of ivory we know, the logic of the lands sit
in these days do we climb ever higher and higher
pace and patience, the myth of doles coming from eggs
the lam of certain I am, in the vision of a prophet with a green thumb
the still aching backside of children...
is your face a further question to the door of excellency, a prophecy dumbed
prophet
the still airing clue in the breeze, is the thunder heard from a future
the tall tale to tell, the count of hairs on guards head, an image wet?
the care of insight, the think of light, the innuendo of live versus the boot
hard for sure, the stick of promise in the mud
but the stir of energies you observe is still the lacking watch for matched barrenness
lip of buoyancy and the tact of essential lore, we ascertain the need for would
the care of an angel be a stressed neighbor in the rain, if a sincerity is a season to attest
the words of a persistent case of dire eyes
we tell the truth, they tell the liar
is in the stir of demonstration for a new why
the look of a naïve soul
in the warranted water, the still of soap
is your fetish for the sulking of a whole
the only way to survive the begat hope?
a string of sausages, with my name on it?
the tired eyes of solemn means, for a wishful foot in the fire
is cant, the taunt of ivory we know, the logic of the lands sit
in these days do we climb ever higher and higher
pace and patience, the myth of doles coming from eggs
the lam of certain I am, in the vision of a prophet with a green thumb
the still aching backside of children...
is your face a further question to the door of excellency, a prophecy dumbed
prophet
the still airing clue in the breeze, is the thunder heard from a future
the tall tale to tell, the count of hairs on guards head, an image wet?
the care of insight, the think of light, the innuendo of live versus the boot
hard for sure, the stick of promise in the mud
but the stir of energies you observe is still the lacking watch for matched barrenness
lip of buoyancy and the tact of essential lore, we ascertain the need for would
the care of an angel be a stressed neighbor in the rain, if a sincerity is a season to attest
Comment On This Poem ---
Butter And Beans Make You Fell Odor...?
Butter And Beans Make You Fell Odor...?