The wind sets with its limbo surrounded by a church of my neglect
By my possible golden innocence
Of dubious flowerless tales, and regulated in the alchemy of painted horrors
It is a crusade of unrecorded senses
a performance of my unknown knees
Random syllables of sanity from my subterranean barometric life
The wind sets with its limbo surrounded by a church of my neglect
By my possible golden innocence
Of dubious flowerless tales, and regulated in the alchemy of painted horrors
It is a crusade of unrecorded senses
a performance of my unknown knees