for hope that flavor comes
Posted: April 12th, 2007, 10:36 pm
I sliced a lime and dropped it in a bottle just for hope that flavor comes.
I took a butchered life to drown in water’s lust for hope that flavor comes.
Long April showers drown its flowers borne on trust that spring means life again.
No time for worried bees’ lament when hungers thrust for hope that flavor comes.
A flower girl, fore marriage feast, shows no disgust for petals shredded, dead.
A bride will glide on petals dead and life adjust for hope that flavor comes.
A prophet comes alive: Jerusalem Or Bust. Jerusalem Or Bust.
Some bread will stale, some wine-red iron blood will rust for hope that flavor comes.
A lover hoped to fix a meal for Love and must have hoped to fix it well.
I take the toast I burn for you and scrape the crust for hope that flavor comes.
You’re always sweet, but when I asked for truth you cussed and cursed and swore in verse.
I’d trade a simple sweet for truth and truth robust, for hope that flavor comes.
She kept her timeless loved ones’ photographs and dust upon a changeless hutch.
She changed the sweets in dry sink jars in lively trust for hope that flavor comes.
She doesn’t like her smile, but likes the way her bust might occupy his eyes.
She doesn’t like the way he grins when, sex or bust for hope, that flavor comes.
He’d rather drive with windows down, but fears some gust might splay his thinning hair.
He’d rather eat; for vanity he’d fast in trust for hope that flavor comes.
Oh vanity of vanities, what I’ve discussed through wan and wasted time.
My words aside, let yet the Lord be God if just for hope that flavor comes.
I took a butchered life to drown in water’s lust for hope that flavor comes.
Long April showers drown its flowers borne on trust that spring means life again.
No time for worried bees’ lament when hungers thrust for hope that flavor comes.
A flower girl, fore marriage feast, shows no disgust for petals shredded, dead.
A bride will glide on petals dead and life adjust for hope that flavor comes.
A prophet comes alive: Jerusalem Or Bust. Jerusalem Or Bust.
Some bread will stale, some wine-red iron blood will rust for hope that flavor comes.
A lover hoped to fix a meal for Love and must have hoped to fix it well.
I take the toast I burn for you and scrape the crust for hope that flavor comes.
You’re always sweet, but when I asked for truth you cussed and cursed and swore in verse.
I’d trade a simple sweet for truth and truth robust, for hope that flavor comes.
She kept her timeless loved ones’ photographs and dust upon a changeless hutch.
She changed the sweets in dry sink jars in lively trust for hope that flavor comes.
She doesn’t like her smile, but likes the way her bust might occupy his eyes.
She doesn’t like the way he grins when, sex or bust for hope, that flavor comes.
He’d rather drive with windows down, but fears some gust might splay his thinning hair.
He’d rather eat; for vanity he’d fast in trust for hope that flavor comes.
Oh vanity of vanities, what I’ve discussed through wan and wasted time.
My words aside, let yet the Lord be God if just for hope that flavor comes.