WINE AND GATES

Been The Stone, The River, And The Friend Of Years...?

Tones of a softer bell
In the real enough roads and chaste found
Since me is a sit, with a courtesy nobody knows except hell
Can I declare a new day, long before the rain shows true; such a soft sound

Proud eyes beyond, pouting lips of pewter dreams
Songs that form the words, to dancing stares
Questions may hover, but is imagination sound, friend
Or the iota of charisma taken, for a knock on the door, where only heaven cares?

A bell heard in the round, but hunted in sorrow
With a reach for admittance, the toil of uniqueness of a following answer
In the part and participle we claim is youth, is love a thing to borrow?
Or a gift of preeminence with a memory for you, the beckoning of hearts

Shadows of curiosity one day, the tone of our voice is a ghost
Turned to import, the retort of a finished eye with it to say
Repose or due the suppose it may, but here is a saving grace, with a host
Told to earn the more, the known, and source of a new mind; with bells to hark a new way...


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Been The Stone, The River, And The Friend Of Years...?

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