WINE AND GATES
A Killer Asks Pillows The Time Of Our Rhymes
presence of mind
do when to then, monsters
of a vestigial tooth of curiosity for kinds
of virtue in the ether of persons, realize a heart to serve?
survival of the fittest, a nest for any soul
the wages of earned knacks and the more
of a saner excuse for acts of duty, to the whole
have the sense of taste, for a side of kismet and warmth?
being and around, we know the martyr of homage to an honorable salt
brazen issues of a world away from the might in a fist
complete to the anarchy of symbols and the whim of integrity at fault
we see the morrow in our own eyes, the champions of gone, challengers of done, to wish
upon the well of fortitude you offered, to children of mutual life
and works of demand, for the space to question the may
in these harbored feet and the smile of condition to know, we select our strife
to keep the blessing of other's in the say, of winds of change that blur, when fair
sallow, the future of selection for the prides sake
the windows of opportunity's and the ailing brides of song and style
would know the spent if not suspense of a new breath in the make
hold with us a chorus of reasons, we would invite, the sneeze of a sorrow all the while
time has pretty hands, therefore the smile is worth its weight in golden soul's
time is in love with the powers that be, and to a lip is a rigor of heads and the awkward
time comes fro those that begat the known, if but a sound worth in the hold
time was a master of dependency for the fruition of sake, to show a few of the arduous
will we say, time is naieve?
innocent as a bird in the hands of another day of sunshine, we know the toil
of vintage mays and the landscape of justice to see, the delicate will's we weave
for a yearning moment of charisma that is the right to more, and the breed of foil's
where then, is the burden of miles and religion, or the sails of conscience contingency
more than a home to wink and prosper upon the stones of continued method?
in these ways we know the monster's of cold paces, where a face has the still of remnancy
caught like the irony of ages past, the person, the place, and the thing of love odd
our selves in the mirror, to finish the size of an ear
thank you, for a sweeter life in the still of the night, if not hill of a day
where we know you for a sanity in the shrewdness of life that comes, for a philosophy to fear
the scantiness of a jaundicing weal, in the since of the myriad, of a hope for patience
do when to then, monsters
of a vestigial tooth of curiosity for kinds
of virtue in the ether of persons, realize a heart to serve?
survival of the fittest, a nest for any soul
the wages of earned knacks and the more
of a saner excuse for acts of duty, to the whole
have the sense of taste, for a side of kismet and warmth?
being and around, we know the martyr of homage to an honorable salt
brazen issues of a world away from the might in a fist
complete to the anarchy of symbols and the whim of integrity at fault
we see the morrow in our own eyes, the champions of gone, challengers of done, to wish
upon the well of fortitude you offered, to children of mutual life
and works of demand, for the space to question the may
in these harbored feet and the smile of condition to know, we select our strife
to keep the blessing of other's in the say, of winds of change that blur, when fair
sallow, the future of selection for the prides sake
the windows of opportunity's and the ailing brides of song and style
would know the spent if not suspense of a new breath in the make
hold with us a chorus of reasons, we would invite, the sneeze of a sorrow all the while
time has pretty hands, therefore the smile is worth its weight in golden soul's
time is in love with the powers that be, and to a lip is a rigor of heads and the awkward
time comes fro those that begat the known, if but a sound worth in the hold
time was a master of dependency for the fruition of sake, to show a few of the arduous
will we say, time is naieve?
innocent as a bird in the hands of another day of sunshine, we know the toil
of vintage mays and the landscape of justice to see, the delicate will's we weave
for a yearning moment of charisma that is the right to more, and the breed of foil's
where then, is the burden of miles and religion, or the sails of conscience contingency
more than a home to wink and prosper upon the stones of continued method?
in these ways we know the monster's of cold paces, where a face has the still of remnancy
caught like the irony of ages past, the person, the place, and the thing of love odd
our selves in the mirror, to finish the size of an ear
thank you, for a sweeter life in the still of the night, if not hill of a day
where we know you for a sanity in the shrewdness of life that comes, for a philosophy to fear
the scantiness of a jaundicing weal, in the since of the myriad, of a hope for patience
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A Killer Asks Pillows The Time Of Our Rhymes
A Killer Asks Pillows The Time Of Our Rhymes