WINE AND GATES
Steel And Lace, Taken To Extremes, Never...
youth in art, youth in mind
the lower of seven, ours until the kind
of vestige in the sorrow of a quiet time
the rue of substitution as if a lion
thanks are in order, the mirth of sour
knowledge in the strange wind, of ventures to the now
ask and prosper says a homey cloud, the walking of a power
in the voice of silence for the rest of us, and the logic to how
quaint for a sign, isn't it?
the lord of prowess and his testimony for the flowers of jests
in the stark nature of vertigo to come, the loyalty of whit's
in the immediate, the specialness of hate, the roll of rogue ethos
has a crown named for the tomorrow
the west with its memory in toes, the right to livid
count among the brides of derision and the vision of would to harrow
the might of a common man, the moment of sand and the law of castles to find, their rid
pride, do you belong to the conscience of another?
in these tepid hands, glory be a king of heaven, but where is the tradition
of a salt before the kiss of regret, the pining and the vinegary stop of truth to bother?
in this land, the palm of sense is but a whirlwind of dust and soil to mend
a tongue
the wherewithal of simpler methods to the kicked bed of alarm and the farm of rusts
should a hardening eye know the collection of redoubt, in a valley of betrayal, young
was the day to collect a future, the smiles of condition for a sound, hearts to pound, thus
salvation for a mind in the rough, of a stoic change
of seasons
the waiting hours of seclusion and the act of none, the miles until home, when
the search for cope has a belly for each, we know the naivete of reasons
his truth, her intuition
the may of charisma and the hind of antipathy in your view, is but a lover
working for the new, the patience of some's in the right beauty had with issues
of courage for the many, if not the sanity of a shadow in the pass of days, to yonder...
stars above
the majority of few and the cooler will of who, in the more we know
is a labor of virgin terror, if not the eclectic sate of causes for the light of does
this coin of treacle, know you for the worth sublime or the scope of a heart to grow?
the lower of seven, ours until the kind
of vestige in the sorrow of a quiet time
the rue of substitution as if a lion
thanks are in order, the mirth of sour
knowledge in the strange wind, of ventures to the now
ask and prosper says a homey cloud, the walking of a power
in the voice of silence for the rest of us, and the logic to how
quaint for a sign, isn't it?
the lord of prowess and his testimony for the flowers of jests
in the stark nature of vertigo to come, the loyalty of whit's
in the immediate, the specialness of hate, the roll of rogue ethos
has a crown named for the tomorrow
the west with its memory in toes, the right to livid
count among the brides of derision and the vision of would to harrow
the might of a common man, the moment of sand and the law of castles to find, their rid
pride, do you belong to the conscience of another?
in these tepid hands, glory be a king of heaven, but where is the tradition
of a salt before the kiss of regret, the pining and the vinegary stop of truth to bother?
in this land, the palm of sense is but a whirlwind of dust and soil to mend
a tongue
the wherewithal of simpler methods to the kicked bed of alarm and the farm of rusts
should a hardening eye know the collection of redoubt, in a valley of betrayal, young
was the day to collect a future, the smiles of condition for a sound, hearts to pound, thus
salvation for a mind in the rough, of a stoic change
of seasons
the waiting hours of seclusion and the act of none, the miles until home, when
the search for cope has a belly for each, we know the naivete of reasons
his truth, her intuition
the may of charisma and the hind of antipathy in your view, is but a lover
working for the new, the patience of some's in the right beauty had with issues
of courage for the many, if not the sanity of a shadow in the pass of days, to yonder...
stars above
the majority of few and the cooler will of who, in the more we know
is a labor of virgin terror, if not the eclectic sate of causes for the light of does
this coin of treacle, know you for the worth sublime or the scope of a heart to grow?
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Steel And Lace, Taken To Extremes, Never...
Steel And Lace, Taken To Extremes, Never...
