Finest Hour
Peter Koppes
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The scent of night on your fingertips
Touch of velvet on your rose petal lips
Scream of lives my senses afray
The music spoke what our words could not say
Don't break, in the finest hour
Don't break, in the finest hour
A Darklit drive on the plains of awry
Smooth and fruit from a sane god's eye
Secret longing passion, passing as we bathe
In the rule of silent wanderlust haze
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Don't break, in the finest hour
Don't break, in the finest hour
Den of midnight, blood on the wire
We watch as sadness, fuels the moral pyre
The sea of gloom, wades out of the room
Dining on hope, we both licked the spoon
Don't break, in the finest hour
Don't break, in the finest hour