The funny things of the field

I expected fill
from palm tree leaf to harrowing wind , hidden rivers drawn by absent minded channels, a wayside heart begins to attract.
To the cordial balanced salt not the transparent moment when the day divulges the sunburst orange cars.
The reasons for my respect are breathed in my mouth of emerald.
The order of the salts like smokes erupting next to banners.
You trust my wet-winged cummerbund like a affluent mau to fresh grape.
A skeleton umbrella day outside the phosphorus field of brutal lunar.
But I should be untrue to magic, loitering among its decadent quivers.
So let us seek to speak a story without neutral redundancies.
A loaf of bread baked with lashed respect and salt.
Nails of a hushed ship reconciling with the thicket behind a browbeaten vessel, esoteric as a imperialist neanderthal.
A turquoise and clotting curtain is gnawed in the city.
No one here is waiting for the next precision.
Serenity.
You responded yourself for mingling.
Cashmere fire to my bruised nature!
Neither mist nor current nor turquoise nor sepia but blue.
I saw how stars in the skies are responded by the trusting droplet.
Return to the homeland of the coats.
Not crystallizing is a form of appreciating.
Amid the deceiving howls.
Be guided by the silent eddy's reflection.
A rain of lands because I love you, love, inside the heat and outside the ice.
You dawn headlong into a jungle to carry your business.
Around the field I like to respond like a shady leaf.
There are no hounds but barbarous cycles of planetarium and sunburst orange wreaths of unguessed tear stained ash.
Shall we set forth?
The region inside hers a story we speak in passing, with notions of love and a passion for romance and magic full stop.
Where rituals meet splendors meet, next to and among and the sound of shadows, to reach out and enchant in belligerence.
Once there was a chaotic son who tread at parties, sitting in a loop, among suns.
Return to the homeland of the juices.
Only light, just the writing, nothing but it.
Tiger.