WINE AND GATES
Turns And Unity For Us In Could And Worldy Isn't Seventh...?
treasure in eight stars
stares for the thought, in yonder future
asked eyes, and heard mouths, time to itself
the walking of notion for a song, that has a world to cure
time on our side, slices of heavens pie
the truth in just and is, we are the held and mighty...?
fury in the behalf of sincerity, to question a sigh
sovereign, to either hour, the song has become faster than lightning
shared needs, in the limelight of cope, terror in a heart to seek, only the youth
if and well, the taste of commonness to assure, succinct now in your hands
for the conscience we divine, division in a hell to divide, with anything but couth
giving God the time of day, is a religious fervor best saved for the day of strength?
goes something like this:
angry hope, your truth dwindling in the winds of chance
mine to seclusive in, the fate of another God given bliss
the danger in our heads, the danger in our hands, is first amid ancients
ancient fears, if not the tear itself
kind and kings of change, the house of cult and courage, to overwhelm the took
season of many more smiles than a language has a mine for, the shame of wealth
in the belly of simplicity, to confirm the vision of anarchy, hence and few to look...
ancient done's, if anyhow is ever the season of the sun, mercy before it falls in love
lover's for a sulking hatred, in our means to excuse the since, a heart was magic
our foolish stones and sticks, to rise forever to the heed of angels, amid us
courage, do you love the very sound of youth, my name for a Christ of turns and liberty sick...?
ancient causes, if anywhere more than itself, the tools of change have become
the cold earth with its sore and hidden shames, to but know a habit of introversion
that has the liscence for a shape of history's honor in time, with anyone
ever with a mind for itself is still dread enough to know the image of intuition...
ancient hopes, if a salt is to be ours, the naked emotion for edges of somber sanity
in the paces of passion found, for the station and answer of a new song, made from the old
come to these, for the knowing when, of wishes made, wishes come worth, by the choices of vanity
let with anointed misery, the strangeness of a world set to more, than hatred in the fold...
stares for the thought, in yonder future
asked eyes, and heard mouths, time to itself
the walking of notion for a song, that has a world to cure
time on our side, slices of heavens pie
the truth in just and is, we are the held and mighty...?
fury in the behalf of sincerity, to question a sigh
sovereign, to either hour, the song has become faster than lightning
shared needs, in the limelight of cope, terror in a heart to seek, only the youth
if and well, the taste of commonness to assure, succinct now in your hands
for the conscience we divine, division in a hell to divide, with anything but couth
giving God the time of day, is a religious fervor best saved for the day of strength?
goes something like this:
angry hope, your truth dwindling in the winds of chance
mine to seclusive in, the fate of another God given bliss
the danger in our heads, the danger in our hands, is first amid ancients
ancient fears, if not the tear itself
kind and kings of change, the house of cult and courage, to overwhelm the took
season of many more smiles than a language has a mine for, the shame of wealth
in the belly of simplicity, to confirm the vision of anarchy, hence and few to look...
ancient done's, if anyhow is ever the season of the sun, mercy before it falls in love
lover's for a sulking hatred, in our means to excuse the since, a heart was magic
our foolish stones and sticks, to rise forever to the heed of angels, amid us
courage, do you love the very sound of youth, my name for a Christ of turns and liberty sick...?
ancient causes, if anywhere more than itself, the tools of change have become
the cold earth with its sore and hidden shames, to but know a habit of introversion
that has the liscence for a shape of history's honor in time, with anyone
ever with a mind for itself is still dread enough to know the image of intuition...
ancient hopes, if a salt is to be ours, the naked emotion for edges of somber sanity
in the paces of passion found, for the station and answer of a new song, made from the old
come to these, for the knowing when, of wishes made, wishes come worth, by the choices of vanity
let with anointed misery, the strangeness of a world set to more, than hatred in the fold...
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Turns And Unity For Us In Could And Worldy Isn`t Seventh...?
Turns And Unity For Us In Could And Worldy Isn`t Seventh...?
