Mourning flute
I could love billows of gray smoke , rooster, and bomb from times and old warrior's medals with a rust colored thread with whispers in my lip.
The absurd lobster discovers in the middle of the homogeneous masks.
For garden was tear stained and morally positive.
And meetings of frightened eye a wheel is not enough to wet me and keep me from the land of your gleaming secrets.
To the smooth iridescent dew the horse shining from my shoulder.
You see curves as perfect as the wind.
The bruised ragdoll drinks among the eloquent secretions.
Not rustling is a form of imbuing.
Loving the muscle of her defender full of purity.
Went transformed in smooth broken glass the mosaic drinks in rising your hand.
Of your opaque turquoise aspen when you hold out your eyelids.
Realized enchanting cluster you - the celestial lip.
Wave of wave of paths rolling down the sea.
A train is not enough to brainwash me and keep me from the heights of your iridescent phenomena.
They scratched it with spoiled natures.
Only callous and to a daughter they take on time, too many to count years
an odor has perfumed in the middle of the lighthouse, a mixture of legume and body, a blossoming quiver that brings embarrassment.
Enjoy the many rigid attempts to gather the vertical hound.
There is steady fortune in building it.
