WINE AND GATES
Hath Silly, Haute Ilk, Who Is, Death ... ?
shied from a saving lip
the sight of a blessed eventuality
in the corner of many, thoughts isn't
them, the toes of requiem for a stranger entity
piles of misery, in your presence
prescience for a floating time, in the swallow of duty
doing the sanity of germane chances with the pleasance
of a cult of pipers to finish the can't of an ordinary...
daisy's?
the choice of a virtue in the limelight of cope
is or is not the candor of reason, to finalize the ages...?
of a route to the mercy of quainter tongues, and a brazen hope
prestige?
the foil of dim nothings, the rarity of condition to further the day
wakes of doles and the liberty involved, is this thumb the place of eaves?
your crimes of passion are judged by the fleetness of curses or sayings...
quality of vows
the sweat of your baring birthright, to know a place in the clouds
beautiful to christened homes, the art of honor to few, the worlds
asked to ought, the nary of hair, in the dealings of a sumptuous, wounds?
clocks, themselves, and a dared child waiting in the wings
must a paced rhyme with a closer time to itself...
being the nourishment of a soul, this question for issues is all and any
the round of sour confirmation of a blown mind, accused of a sates wealth
chaste?
made from the flowers of songs to the nature of deliverance?
oddity to fear the sorts of a risen nakedness of justice to come, the act of haste?
where is a pence of curiosity to fathom the moment of silence's change?
money
the talk of brevity and the sorority of chance, is a place of confusion
in the skills of a showing mastery of powers unseen, if not obscene
live for today? your birthday has committed a foul reason to the nose of what is, a none...
thank you for a barren virginity of solace, in the likewise of sundry not's
this tree of scowls and violence of jaded mores, is for the sound of utter conscience
of a passion in the weariness of cold eyes, wearing the myth of what us
is a longevity of vehemence to seek the dour truth, of a house of hungry echoes
done like the triumph of a sorrow in the roes of a dirty shoe
well to know, the part of a silver breeze at your cheek, in climates
of virtue and salt for a shadow of a character to form, the kind of you
your tongue is the charity a patience in the sour regard of which is worth, in same's...
the sight of a blessed eventuality
in the corner of many, thoughts isn't
them, the toes of requiem for a stranger entity
piles of misery, in your presence
prescience for a floating time, in the swallow of duty
doing the sanity of germane chances with the pleasance
of a cult of pipers to finish the can't of an ordinary...
daisy's?
the choice of a virtue in the limelight of cope
is or is not the candor of reason, to finalize the ages...?
of a route to the mercy of quainter tongues, and a brazen hope
prestige?
the foil of dim nothings, the rarity of condition to further the day
wakes of doles and the liberty involved, is this thumb the place of eaves?
your crimes of passion are judged by the fleetness of curses or sayings...
quality of vows
the sweat of your baring birthright, to know a place in the clouds
beautiful to christened homes, the art of honor to few, the worlds
asked to ought, the nary of hair, in the dealings of a sumptuous, wounds?
clocks, themselves, and a dared child waiting in the wings
must a paced rhyme with a closer time to itself...
being the nourishment of a soul, this question for issues is all and any
the round of sour confirmation of a blown mind, accused of a sates wealth
chaste?
made from the flowers of songs to the nature of deliverance?
oddity to fear the sorts of a risen nakedness of justice to come, the act of haste?
where is a pence of curiosity to fathom the moment of silence's change?
money
the talk of brevity and the sorority of chance, is a place of confusion
in the skills of a showing mastery of powers unseen, if not obscene
live for today? your birthday has committed a foul reason to the nose of what is, a none...
thank you for a barren virginity of solace, in the likewise of sundry not's
this tree of scowls and violence of jaded mores, is for the sound of utter conscience
of a passion in the weariness of cold eyes, wearing the myth of what us
is a longevity of vehemence to seek the dour truth, of a house of hungry echoes
done like the triumph of a sorrow in the roes of a dirty shoe
well to know, the part of a silver breeze at your cheek, in climates
of virtue and salt for a shadow of a character to form, the kind of you
your tongue is the charity a patience in the sour regard of which is worth, in same's...
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Hath Silly, Haute Ilk, Who Is, Death ... ?
Hath Silly, Haute Ilk, Who Is, Death ... ?
