WINE AND GATES
Pressed Halves Of Season's Rises And Falls
Coffee and egg's
Sounds of war on the television
Seldom do we hear a hero more, for history's sake
In the mourning, for a new religion...
Prices of average's, taken to sharing extreme's
The taste of the egg's have the moment, the knowledge of good and evil
To witness the how, the morbidity of which I speak
In the dust somewhere to excuse the keep, of a somber need for well...
The price of the news
Wealth in our distinction, maybe a six is fewer than eight
Toes of dismay, with a province for what owes
Tradition in the tears of justice, we know is a lover late
Powers that wish, upon the same star as me
Tones of voice so around, that charisma has a limit to us
The truth for the bared lip, of consciences so far apart, that wisdom is a key
Sent to the nerves of simplicity for an answer, to the rage we disgust in...
A blade of grass, held high, for the answer of distaste to the coy
Leavened bread to remind, the aching eye of judgment, we are the known
Made from the space of vicinity, if not the heathen audacity to understand a ploy
Invisible to the measure of one light, against the night so long...
Here is the taste of poison so fine, that some would with the laugh of ages
Taken for a knock, and then a banging door
The world has come of age, with the lips of saints, but the kiss of babes
For we are the right to live, in the regret that is open war...
Speed and space for the special, good countrymen
Where as a life is so profound, that days of reach and treatment
Seem to be the cleverness of gall, in the mercy's of others to blend
A shred of decency worth one more look, at the hell we made, for passion's relent
Can, does and us begin where the places of men know a harping all?
In the end, the news is with us a step further for rage to seek its own
The needs of finite honor, and the fantasy that was a catching cold to fall
With all good season's comes the praise we suggest, is this body exist, or is it loved?
Like the marvel of reasons before us, the truth is in the being
Low interest's and the blessing of suicide, for each is his own merit
To take the news to heart, for whence the impression of duty and dreams leaving
For the sight of another, to wish in their hands, the very climb of spirit...
Sounds of war on the television
Seldom do we hear a hero more, for history's sake
In the mourning, for a new religion...
Prices of average's, taken to sharing extreme's
The taste of the egg's have the moment, the knowledge of good and evil
To witness the how, the morbidity of which I speak
In the dust somewhere to excuse the keep, of a somber need for well...
The price of the news
Wealth in our distinction, maybe a six is fewer than eight
Toes of dismay, with a province for what owes
Tradition in the tears of justice, we know is a lover late
Powers that wish, upon the same star as me
Tones of voice so around, that charisma has a limit to us
The truth for the bared lip, of consciences so far apart, that wisdom is a key
Sent to the nerves of simplicity for an answer, to the rage we disgust in...
A blade of grass, held high, for the answer of distaste to the coy
Leavened bread to remind, the aching eye of judgment, we are the known
Made from the space of vicinity, if not the heathen audacity to understand a ploy
Invisible to the measure of one light, against the night so long...
Here is the taste of poison so fine, that some would with the laugh of ages
Taken for a knock, and then a banging door
The world has come of age, with the lips of saints, but the kiss of babes
For we are the right to live, in the regret that is open war...
Speed and space for the special, good countrymen
Where as a life is so profound, that days of reach and treatment
Seem to be the cleverness of gall, in the mercy's of others to blend
A shred of decency worth one more look, at the hell we made, for passion's relent
Can, does and us begin where the places of men know a harping all?
In the end, the news is with us a step further for rage to seek its own
The needs of finite honor, and the fantasy that was a catching cold to fall
With all good season's comes the praise we suggest, is this body exist, or is it loved?
Like the marvel of reasons before us, the truth is in the being
Low interest's and the blessing of suicide, for each is his own merit
To take the news to heart, for whence the impression of duty and dreams leaving
For the sight of another, to wish in their hands, the very climb of spirit...
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Pressed Halves Of Season`s Rises And Falls
Pressed Halves Of Season`s Rises And Falls