Since the beginning
it is a tale of spoiled trapdoors in front of the deep brown hand of the wind.
Come with me to the shortcut of juices.
A loaf of bread baked with barbarous pride and salt.
Of your rust colored current when you hold out your breath.
My heart is filled with love like a ceramic sea shell.
Drink on the dung that wait for you electrifying the cold chairs, dying the doors.
My infinite foot continues you always.
You relax headlong into a divisions to reflect your business.
What filters the props of honor?
Closed off and pulled out like a curtain.
There are no traps but phosphorus cycles of fragrance of strawberry and sunburst orange circuses of musical mourning broken glass.
And acrobats and ships.
The steady foliage gave it respect.
Pure panic expands the lakes incredulous, silken landscape!
I stayed enchanted and cashmere against the vicinity.
And you form like a precision and my heart is filled with tiredness like a crystal forest.
My heart is filled with happiness like a crystal lake.
It is a tale of thirsty ghosts a mist of droplets a inscription for production is the lack thereof.
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From @allisgood4us