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.
Clubs
at night
90 Membres
Motörhead
256 Membres
Royal Spam Society
38 Membres
GRUNGE
151 Membres
Admin's Corner and Training Club
496 Membres