WINE AND GATES
Hell And Done, Risen Isn't Argued Now?
ant to the lion
where is a distant and curt smile
the notion of kisses and trying,
as if you want to give me one, with denial
the lion replied
where is a near and wanting frown
the portion of spites and lazing
as if you want to give me one, with shown
the mercy in a gay moment
the power to lips of call, and the mark of omniscience
is all and anything, the birth of a spirits relent
like fluid conscience, we remember the silence
taken for a kind
the charisma of sincerity is in the stare of same
the walls of insolence and the care of essence, why
is your foot the way to glory, if we select our names?
terror from a thought, the still of the night
the lucre of wished for companionship, in the sign of a knuckle
this is the season of regret, the spurilous way we might
is meant for the course of a new glance, at the shape of things willed
elaborate, the savior of callous shame, in the skill of ordeals
the war with anger, and the spine of dismay
is this the continued play, if not say of the fear we heal...
anywhere with a soul for the sate of many, the soul of a few, patience
and to a land, that knew the severity of conclusions, in the bowels of relent
the certainty of cold and causes of hot, is but a mission to the fold
of semblances of could, the share of dignity be, the heart of lament
the shall with the rightness of all, in the scent of honor to come, and whole
where is a distant and curt smile
the notion of kisses and trying,
as if you want to give me one, with denial
the lion replied
where is a near and wanting frown
the portion of spites and lazing
as if you want to give me one, with shown
the mercy in a gay moment
the power to lips of call, and the mark of omniscience
is all and anything, the birth of a spirits relent
like fluid conscience, we remember the silence
taken for a kind
the charisma of sincerity is in the stare of same
the walls of insolence and the care of essence, why
is your foot the way to glory, if we select our names?
terror from a thought, the still of the night
the lucre of wished for companionship, in the sign of a knuckle
this is the season of regret, the spurilous way we might
is meant for the course of a new glance, at the shape of things willed
elaborate, the savior of callous shame, in the skill of ordeals
the war with anger, and the spine of dismay
is this the continued play, if not say of the fear we heal...
anywhere with a soul for the sate of many, the soul of a few, patience
and to a land, that knew the severity of conclusions, in the bowels of relent
the certainty of cold and causes of hot, is but a mission to the fold
of semblances of could, the share of dignity be, the heart of lament
the shall with the rightness of all, in the scent of honor to come, and whole
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Hell And Done, Risen Isn`t Argued Now?
Hell And Done, Risen Isn`t Argued Now?
