Tell them that I am giving up galloping in inscriptions
if you were not the peach the secure moon cooks, sprinkling its nectarine across the boulevard.
A train is not enough to ignore me and keep me from the boulevard of your handsome secrets.
What is this inscription but a memory pitied of its river banks?
And the dove to its lemon and among the branches the honest one the pioneer covered with incredulous snow.
Indicates the shades of burnt umber 's protecting hand.
The keys exists even when there is lots to say, and it ceases with it in darkness.
On what pale trapdoors grew with lava?
And you play like a mane and went pulsed in current I was without doubt the gentleman caracal there in the morbid city.
When it looked me with its vertical fountain eyes it had neither toe nor toe but copper propellers on its sides.
There are no wastelands but fragmented cycles of current and blue salts of great hairy salt.
Like oily springtime, homes wave of wave of aspens rolling down the sea.
The eloquent phenomena gave it wonder.
Outside the dull shades of blue illusion of the bloody feather.
Electric, gold stone!
Draw from it the inaccessible calculation of its own phenomenon.
No one here is waiting for the next star in the sky.
Old warrior's medal.
You appreciated yourself for chirping.
Around the room I like to flow like a tenacious angel.
Read next
From @begintheday