WINE AND GATES
Who Is My Boots, When Is My Mit's, Tradition?
nasty old order
in the brace of a mind to confer
the ache of need, in the shallow waters we knead, were
the candor of scope and if not the hidden hope, of a breath to serve
these sea shells...
that old dragon of a sound, in our fist...
them told ears of acceptance and the age of iron hell's...
those of where, and the pathway to lovers in the spire of a quest...
toward the nape of a neck
the reasons have become sallow and a sheer joy
the risen tear of sanity for a home to beckon
are you a rather or an other, the selection of wisdom for allow, yet
timely, if isn't ever is timid
the nakedness of a ghost on the behalf of a which
is a meriting soul worth its weight in gold, liberty or lips
the walls of silent offering has become, a lord of riches
do you...
the count of dearness in the calling wind, birds of paradise
know the tale of a hidden means to collect a fluid dew...
the naivete of conscience for the sacred, if a panic elects to use, the lies
quiet, for a moment in the fairness of a fury
terror for an answer to the salt of sulking, the now to collect a harrowed
magic or saccharine, the lovers of coils and the seer of an oil, the heart to worry
worlds away, on the calmness of a table that is devoted to the honor morrowed ...
pyres in lords grasp, for a song that destroyed a bad love, if nothing's heaven
thunder for the sanctity of choice, the clash of response for the care of an edge
of life in the clouds, the walking terror of somes and the ashes of lore to envy
this cliff of future wishes is ours, for a spirit and the miracle of a rage...
in the brace of a mind to confer
the ache of need, in the shallow waters we knead, were
the candor of scope and if not the hidden hope, of a breath to serve
these sea shells...
that old dragon of a sound, in our fist...
them told ears of acceptance and the age of iron hell's...
those of where, and the pathway to lovers in the spire of a quest...
toward the nape of a neck
the reasons have become sallow and a sheer joy
the risen tear of sanity for a home to beckon
are you a rather or an other, the selection of wisdom for allow, yet
timely, if isn't ever is timid
the nakedness of a ghost on the behalf of a which
is a meriting soul worth its weight in gold, liberty or lips
the walls of silent offering has become, a lord of riches
do you...
the count of dearness in the calling wind, birds of paradise
know the tale of a hidden means to collect a fluid dew...
the naivete of conscience for the sacred, if a panic elects to use, the lies
quiet, for a moment in the fairness of a fury
terror for an answer to the salt of sulking, the now to collect a harrowed
magic or saccharine, the lovers of coils and the seer of an oil, the heart to worry
worlds away, on the calmness of a table that is devoted to the honor morrowed ...
pyres in lords grasp, for a song that destroyed a bad love, if nothing's heaven
thunder for the sanctity of choice, the clash of response for the care of an edge
of life in the clouds, the walking terror of somes and the ashes of lore to envy
this cliff of future wishes is ours, for a spirit and the miracle of a rage...
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Who Is My Boots, When Is My Mit`s, Tradition?
Who Is My Boots, When Is My Mit`s, Tradition?