how long the chorus dance our bones by nature's heaving hips how little left to heaven shone bloody god on man's ripe lips quarter-willing, half-compelled remainder left to fate how much of this is given to love; and how much of love, to hate
how long the chorus dance our bones by nature's heaving hips how little left to heaven shone bloody god on man's ripe lips quarter-willing, half-compelled remainder left to fate how much of this is given to love; and how much of love, to hate
Isn’t it only the indulgent man who can disdain himself enough to muster the hatred to look for the ugliness inside him—some men even with a grin and gallows humor?
The Prodigal