Wane is a shawl, i've stripped off From the virulent heat. Vain i've milled and crumbled And poured into junket you'll eat. Feast is a bait. (I'm desirefully sanctite) Feast is a bait– Raged adverse hands Gripped your neck ın lust of suffocation
Polished mirror– Nearby, just the wall divides Bleak downswinging "nation" Scrabing and crawling your hedge. With malicious "regards", Prominent vein, Incinirate to ashes...by a cressels. They are labourers Who manure your ****** plains. Polished mirror– Bleeding river Where your reflection is sublime But decreasing, due to drought (And dignity's profaned...)
Conscience dejects and impens, Disables foul-souls to feast. Dissapears in sudden– Purified and peeled. Cravings and ruinous temptations are rules, Untill it's pestilent and boresome And you beg for its rooting back And returning.
Feast is a bait. Admires hypocritical: Human trade, Quench of "Mature duration" Truth gyrates from ear to ear– abruption. Thats's how nobility cracks as a high-grade crystal, But decayed grade. Feast is a bait– Raged adverse hands Gripped your neck – one second to suffocation.