Through far too many rains to count,
more than i'd ever like to say.
your virtue went up for sale,
and to the highest bidder,
scurried with the faint
scent of orange roses and pink carnations,
wilted sweet deafening dream.
words i'd never let your ears now catch,
though my stare told a separate story from this,
while you thought your way into my heart, into my chest.
we're all fixed raising questions of love and time and what takes place when the two collide.
it's fairly contemptible the circumstances fallen in or out of.
Through far too many rains to count, more than i'd ever like to say.
Turn the view around.
Turn your stance about.
Look past your life to know the danger of marking wants in the script.
Where does this earn me?
More than i'd like to say.
Still, tremble, spill out a fervor.
Killing the scene - stirring in your eye.
Winter dream repose of a city in the west never to materialize, with a man of refuse locked in dependence.
The truth be told by a man of virtue to claim reprisal.
All things equal at the rising of unspoken words, the words that are always the loudest, unspoken words are always the loudest.