WINE AND GATES
Is It Me, Or Did Naivete Just Die For You?
nine to twelve, o' clock
ably and fair, the song on the radio has made it
the also with the mosts in our view, is a hair to remember a knock
themselves and the sour and needless nature to give, of a mind that hasn't
willing toes, the nearer we get, the order of sincerity
if but an asking tongue, and origins of salt, in the distance
calm or peculiarly shown, the pathway to your house is in the city
stone cold seasons, or overtly warm shines of days every where but in hands
turn with us, the needs of a dire thing, in the moments of choice
to quell and give biding and briefness of difference, in more
to the language of silence that has appointed us to appear, this is the muse of voices
in the miracle of semblance to wink upon a knowledge of restriction and the smile of callous or
mists of complacency, the tired eyes of neglect to give, kindred
the mere with the belly of fear, in the shape of your hasn't
complete to the name of youths, the assurance of benign truths, questioned ahead
the many orders and furies we select for sunk breaths and the myriad wasn't...?
like ourselves, the mutual life of dreams and the wine of duty found to keep, love
nowhere but in the mind of does, is the version of kisses and hisses to the nerve
ever more than a door of undeath, the glue of horror and the still thriving sin of done
the myth of daring and the ogled legend of unclear eyes, that know you, for a heart to serve
tart to know you, the capability of views in the vouch of yet another, soul
to collect a brass ring of urges and the dry have of seeking love
until we meet again, the touch of family and its annul of youths, is my holy
collapse upon the needs of others and the mire of deeming neglect, for the very kiss of us
ably and fair, the song on the radio has made it
the also with the mosts in our view, is a hair to remember a knock
themselves and the sour and needless nature to give, of a mind that hasn't
willing toes, the nearer we get, the order of sincerity
if but an asking tongue, and origins of salt, in the distance
calm or peculiarly shown, the pathway to your house is in the city
stone cold seasons, or overtly warm shines of days every where but in hands
turn with us, the needs of a dire thing, in the moments of choice
to quell and give biding and briefness of difference, in more
to the language of silence that has appointed us to appear, this is the muse of voices
in the miracle of semblance to wink upon a knowledge of restriction and the smile of callous or
mists of complacency, the tired eyes of neglect to give, kindred
the mere with the belly of fear, in the shape of your hasn't
complete to the name of youths, the assurance of benign truths, questioned ahead
the many orders and furies we select for sunk breaths and the myriad wasn't...?
like ourselves, the mutual life of dreams and the wine of duty found to keep, love
nowhere but in the mind of does, is the version of kisses and hisses to the nerve
ever more than a door of undeath, the glue of horror and the still thriving sin of done
the myth of daring and the ogled legend of unclear eyes, that know you, for a heart to serve
tart to know you, the capability of views in the vouch of yet another, soul
to collect a brass ring of urges and the dry have of seeking love
until we meet again, the touch of family and its annul of youths, is my holy
collapse upon the needs of others and the mire of deeming neglect, for the very kiss of us
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Is It Me, Or Did Naivete Just Die For You?
Is It Me, Or Did Naivete Just Die For You?
