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Hands hot on alabaster skin,
I'm drowning in sin.
God, is this wrong,
for this love in which we long?
Speaking in a foreign tongue,
with words I can't understand,
will you sing me a song,
soft and sweet and forbidden?
With the sky overhead illuminating,
it renders us impossible of communicating.
The weather turns cold,
the clouds go dark,
and you tell me, "age is cultural, but do souls really grow old?"
I can't comprehend,
so I hug you instead,
I'm an absolute fool.
This feeling, it's nothing important,
something unspecified.
You whisper sweet nothings in my ear,
you say you love me,
but I've already gone deaf.
It's too late.
- by I am Father |
- Poetry And Lyrics
- | Submitted on 11/13/2008 |
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