Out of Order

Accuse me of this, trusting what did I gest? To think or confess, silence seems to be best Speaking of words, accepting it would be worse And solace comes first, it forfeits here in retrieving Every last reason for wanting of evidence With all things beside us that line up as residence Everything left be a waste of time Perfect as this, to only realize a guess Conflicts can rest, what takes precedence next? Keeping with words, how can I be a*sured? Solace comes first, it forfeits here in retrieving Every last reason for wanting of evidence With all things beside us that line up as residence Everything left be a waste of time