My love is an angel’s gift of fallen fruit My love is an angel’s gift of fallen fruit. Engulfed by the furnace of monstrous truth, Designed by the art of cherubim, Holding back the winter of karmic beam. How am I not to be born with such a trait? And live all my desires for an era before detritus. The faith has exactly ashen the tune, With the foul play of the nature; ruin, I seek solace in our momentous brought, Like a cub in her guardians thought, What have had made me? A hundred of thousands ask of thee: But I have no beautiful lines to inscribe, You are a laurel of old-time as ticker describe.
Posted on: Fri, 30 Aug 2013 14:03:06 +0000
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