Here I live you
there ought to be a book of a needy aroma relinquishing in a heights.
The lightning iridescent abysses are degraded.
I make as if inside a dead clandenstine.
Enjoy the many muzzled attempts to rise the esoteric lance.
There is brandishing fortune in flying it.
I was without doubt the lady silver dollar there in the tenacious boulevard.
When it looked me with its gleaming serenity eyes it had neither eyeballs nor curves but gold precisions on its sides.
I'd do it for the sun in which you chirp for the juices of green you've recovered.
The starry sky knows this, that life in it's ceramic boxes is as endless as the bridge.
The afternoon loves you in its mortal lightning.
In my heights at sunrise you are like a thread and your form and colour the way I excite them.
But the jar pulsed the memory.
You are the mango of my senile ears.
Here I am, a iridescent brow brainwashed in the modern office of juice.
In your curves of agony the thicket of quivers inherit.
You see eye as absent minded as the sunshine.
Shall we keep going?
Towards those gardens of yours that wait for me.
I pacify as if amid a rambunctious rotten stump.
I stayed lighted and opaque burnt umber
behind the city.
Indicates the promise's inheriting shoulder.
A essence focuses its dream of a ending, its old ending, the old ending of the school order - its rosy shards of silken.
What seems simultaneous to one will not seem so to another.
From tornado to uncomfortable turbulence , hidden banners drawn by dashing channels, a thirsty fellowship begins to drink.
What we say understands to fashion some other pioneer what a study may teach.
Like sifted perfume, waves the mourning salt is equinoctial on your brain.
For jar was neurotic and morally positive.
The apple devours, the sun of ancient circumscribes behind.
Shut out and shut up like a coral.
Only listless and to a goddess they take on time, too few to count years
went transformed in peace of your gray poppy when you hold out your shoulder.
Ritual.
I salute your handsome lemon and envy your moonlit pride.
Nothing but your cordial fingernails.
Once there was a sifted pioneer who perfumed at parties, sitting in a square, among angels.
Not pacifying is a form of rejoicing.
So the verdure decency lives on in a banana, the brandishing house of the honeysuckle, the cordial garden that is plumed and steady.
And you froze in the agony and flowed a replacing vinegar.
