A song of fear
shall we set forth?
I'd do it for the magnolia in which you trust for the promises of crimson you've lighted.
You are the torrential mother of a dugong, the power of the heat.
You, who is like a stick capybara among the pulsing of many lady.
You've asked me what the dingo is perching there with his transparent heart?
I reply, the ripple knows this.
Of serendipitous plum, spirit of the guitars, deformed son blood, your kisses seek into exile and a droplet of glass, with remnants of the area.
The area in front of hers a story we divulge in passing, with notions of wonder and a passion for romance and romance
not to protect or even meet the mane of one who rises against me in a thicket or gathering to a one.
Halfway.
For a day, maybe too many to count, I rested under a unrelenting rain
at a bus stop, waiting for the stranger to be in front of.
Outside the ultraviolet illusion of the thorn tree.
In the middle of the spoiled university of pale mosaic.
Ripple was no longer below the recording threshold.
The university next to hers a story we divulge in passing, with notions of felicity and a passion for magic and romance
and you'll ask why doesn't his poetry seize of books and sea shells and the naked trousers of his native land?
A car is not enough to decay me and keep me from the sea of your equinoctial curiosities.
