Flowers on the hill, flowers on my grave, Tall grass, thistles, dead leaves and creeping vines Don't leave numbers or names but do engrave Their story on stones glaciers left behind. Time is a stearn and officious proctor Allowing brief moments, a look, a kiss, But not permanence, that's what death is for, The Reaper's shining blade that cannot miss. The soul is a whisper within a dream Filtered through stained glass, painted on ceilings, Illuminating ourselves like sun beams, A welder's arc of passion and feelings.
Клуби
at night
90 Користувачів
Motörhead
256 Користувачів
Royal Spam Society
38 Користувачів
GRUNGE
151 Користувачів
Admin's Corner and Training Club
494 Користувачів