In Style of Old
In living memory,
Shadows dwell,
Engaging not,
From winch they fell.
They hover hollowed,
In the spine,
Creating chills.
For which they pine.
It�s not for you,
It�s not for I,
It�s only time,
For which they cry.
And in the dark,
And in the light,
It�s in the past,
What�s held so tight.
For mourning breaks,
When day is nigh,
Until the dusk,
When nare they fly.
And passion burns,
Intense the flame,
From the bouls of suns,
With unknown name.
In living memory,
Shadows dwell,
Engaging not,
From winch they fell.
They hover hollowed,
In the spine,
Creating chills.
For which they pine.
It�s not for you,
It�s not for I,
It�s only time,
For which they cry.
And in the dark,
And in the light,
It�s in the past,
What�s held so tight.
For mourning breaks,
When day is nigh,
Until the dusk,
When nare they fly.
And passion burns,
Intense the flame,
From the bouls of suns,
With unknown name.
In Style of Old
In living memory,
Shadows dwell,
Engaging not,
From winch they fell.
They hover hollowed,
In the spine,
Creating chills.
For which they pine.
It�s not for you,
It�s not for I,
It�s only time,
For which they cry.
And in the dark,
And in the light,
It�s in the past,
What�s held so tight.
For mourning breaks,
When day is nigh,
Until the dusk,
When nare they fly.
And passion burns,
Intense the flame,
From the bouls of suns,
With unknown name.
In living memory,
Shadows dwell,
Engaging not,
From winch they fell.
They hover hollowed,
In the spine,
Creating chills.
For which they pine.
It�s not for you,
It�s not for I,
It�s only time,
For which they cry.
And in the dark,
And in the light,
It�s in the past,
What�s held so tight.
For mourning breaks,
When day is nigh,
Until the dusk,
When nare they fly.
And passion burns,
Intense the flame,
From the bouls of suns,
With unknown name.
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