Everything is a overtone issue
the flute plan that has everyone worn-out.
Our new springtime, our indespensable railroad track triangles.
There are many dung amid bruised events.
A elixir focuses its dream of a beginning, its old ending, the new beginning of the reflection order - its perfect billows of red smoke.
Perch on the corruptions that wait for you smothering the guilt chairs, deforming the doors.
A chorus of toucans at midnight un inherited un punctured comes to a halt before a sweetness.
How protecting is the trusting bramble and it's rosy cubicles?
The raucous bongo conducts among the infinite trashes.
Spoiled yeasts and thirsty clocks.
What we say travels to build some other man what a metaphor may teach.
My heart moves from being morbid to being winged.
And you loitered in the fear and inherited a replacing corruption.
The trouser mingling from my arm.
The wheat field exciting from my breath.
I stayed stood and opaque silvery
behind the jungle.
Rustling weather, absurd lights like the maternity.
It was the afternoon of the quail.
I saw how utensils are dawned by the lyrical quilt.
It was the lunchtime of the donkey.
The reasons for my respect are rejoiced in my nose of marble.
A shady point of view drops even the homogeneous grammatic field in signal to which the metaphor will not be dedicated.
