WINE AND GATES
Still The Being Can, Done With A Lent...
price above gold?
the order of sound, in your must and thus
instinct of the cant of odd, belief in a sense to hold
the promise of conscience, to these words we collect us
a flag planted, into worlds patience we adore yours, war
the stream of vestiges, the eave of guesses
for the fruition of culture, the take of duty, somehow dour
piped with the place of corpulence, the idea of what lets
learned with a kiss of sense, the right to live by the piety's flame
then thirst, then worst, the count of adding injury to a tally
of redress, the earned form to silence, for the risen gift of a name
a name with the blood to confirm, the lore of flesh for the ire to ally
we learned to dream, in the skip and ply of evening schemes
the truth be had on a summary plate, of excellency we know the just
for a day with the crying force, of courage in the waste of seems
poise for the salt of consideration, the price beyond the affirmed luster
days gone by, days gone blind?
persons of vintage unity, made a fool of location and isolation
come the hill of traitors to the need, of classes and the hearth of time
pristine collections of kind upon come, the stars to reprimand the intuition
of a charity in the sound of heaven
where have all your souls and the regret of ironic doles
been, the sin of curiosity in the heart of solace, for the tried seclusion given
the trying terror of sincerer method, for the paradise of old?
three little mice, ten little fingers
watched forks in the road, where the still of lives knew the dread
compared to since, the reason of exaction for the pact of kin lingers
for the season of duress in our arms, the composure of life ahead?
the order of sound, in your must and thus
instinct of the cant of odd, belief in a sense to hold
the promise of conscience, to these words we collect us
a flag planted, into worlds patience we adore yours, war
the stream of vestiges, the eave of guesses
for the fruition of culture, the take of duty, somehow dour
piped with the place of corpulence, the idea of what lets
learned with a kiss of sense, the right to live by the piety's flame
then thirst, then worst, the count of adding injury to a tally
of redress, the earned form to silence, for the risen gift of a name
a name with the blood to confirm, the lore of flesh for the ire to ally
we learned to dream, in the skip and ply of evening schemes
the truth be had on a summary plate, of excellency we know the just
for a day with the crying force, of courage in the waste of seems
poise for the salt of consideration, the price beyond the affirmed luster
days gone by, days gone blind?
persons of vintage unity, made a fool of location and isolation
come the hill of traitors to the need, of classes and the hearth of time
pristine collections of kind upon come, the stars to reprimand the intuition
of a charity in the sound of heaven
where have all your souls and the regret of ironic doles
been, the sin of curiosity in the heart of solace, for the tried seclusion given
the trying terror of sincerer method, for the paradise of old?
three little mice, ten little fingers
watched forks in the road, where the still of lives knew the dread
compared to since, the reason of exaction for the pact of kin lingers
for the season of duress in our arms, the composure of life ahead?
Comment On This Poem ---
Still The Being Can, Done With A Lent...
Still The Being Can, Done With A Lent...
