Snow, white lies, December.
The fire can refine, a newborn
Folly from the eye's of babes.
I might be grave but I will still stay
Until I see the last little seed falls into place.
Reserved and trailing grey.
A wake in life with an open eye into the other world there.
Many have told me meaning,
Against and with desire.
I will say anything,
Of this or of that
And squired intent
Falls out of my cap.
An eye to those who are silent,
The observational diet.
I will eat and I will leave,
The appropriate harbor, less my brain begins to bleed.
Informed by more then what words spell,
To hear underneath them, what some can't stand to tell.
A reason for this uneasy feeling.
But I am unspoken, unkind, and unknowing,
Unruly, uncouth and untaught.
Vulgarity fits, poorly appropriate,
Saddled bed of apathy.
Then tell me how the fire feels, actually.
And all the words make sure to whisper
But dark and December
Avast, we'll wind in the maw.
A strong storm behind our sails now, a bright light behind our backs.
I trembled no less then how the storm still can shake me,
This world is no less then vicious and fact.
I've ordered no more then the plate that they gave me,
I trembled no less then the storm still attacks.
This word is no more useful then any,
Every meaning is an open end to precision,
Ruthless. Usefulness and tact preceding the unaccomp'nied back. Holy shit how graceful.
They move so slow, a steady crushing hand.
