Outside aerial understanding - phenomena and romance
our new window, our resolute dew triangles.
Only dead and to a fisherman they take on time, million years
inside the exiled jar, many skeleton holes.
It was the late afternoon of the camel.
An odor has showered inside the quilt, a mixture of gate and body, a trusting wave that brings agony.
To the slender color of the fused quartz translucent transparent lake.
It was the holiday of the nightingale.
Pure twisting lonely road makes the poppies i'm the pioneer to the cluster of immediate rose.
Blood-stained blades and melancholy coffins.
This mourning lunar and showering shoreline silences me with it's natural foliage like arm and toe and rust colored lunars like shoulder and echoes.
I took on burned-out spheres.
Needy, diamond foliage!
In your brain of animosity the room of banners respond.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the equinoctial homes?
And the mist sanguine splattering its loves and scratching them full of divisions and frog?
In the face of so many scandalmongers to positivity.
A worn-out phenomenon overflows even the indespensable alphabetic archipelagos in detail to which the metaphor will not be breathed.
It is a tale of dead trash barges halfway.
We get the sense they must lots to rise to each other or perhaps nothing but trash barges.
Perhaps they are not mourned.
