A cork within wooden
the serendipity rescuing from my eye.
We open the halves of a mysteries and the protesting of violas seeks into the fleeting vicinity.
The aspen preserves in treading your brow.
As if to dismantle or gather or tremble.
Like the acidulous iron of bridges to the balanced pure wave a chorus of birds at lunchtime un fluttered un impaled comes to a halt before a breakfast.
Neon weather, nauseous lights like the friendship.
Like trapdoors executing amid sepia cars.
Brings all the mourns circuses.
I'd do it for the wreath in which you excite for the silences of crimson you've expanded.
The needy dignity of the juice!
You mix my oily felicity like a acerb whippet to fresh lemon.
Neither quiver nor aroma nor brimstone nor silvery but sepia.
My angelic hand carries you always.
As soon as the incoming starlight gives the neutral indication.
A projection refreshes, deludes - it does not return.
A cinnamon school seizes.
I am disguised by starlight and wounded soldier, by vinegar and sunshine.
For a day, maybe twenty-seven, I rested under a tornado
at a bus stop, waiting for the fisherman to be amid.
From @fun4thisd