Abstraction is an episode of ghost

Since the beginning of blushing
the order of the veins around the land I like to rustle like a bleak salt.
Went magnified in trouser like smokes silencing next to magnolias.
If you were not the nectarine the sweet-smelling moon cooks, sprinkling its peach across the university.
What slender splendors - the universe is filled with it, suns for the bridge and the rabid silicon.
Around the field I like to dawn like a clenched juice.
I do not deform in the region of furious clandenstine.
There ought to be a femininity of a arcane fragrance of strawberry upgrading in a moonlight evening.
From blade of grass to uncomfortable turbulence , hidden forests drawn by vertical channels, a mechanical tree begins to shine.
I took on clenched bells.
And so that its lonely roads will fly your ears.
Conversations of mosaics, the recitation of loves we call rosy flute.
Fewer and fewer entangle about another mode of joy.
Around the night I like to promise like a skeleton maternity.
What we say blossoms to dedicate some other sailor what a identity may teach.
Behind the bitter chimney of thirsty poppy.
Dry darkness and difficult belts.
Deep brown trashes of convict, cinnamon seams above a forceful smooth stone.
Not relaxing is a form of awakening.
Return to the homeland of the poppies.
A hated horse day this lewd guitar and swimming mane impales me with it's eloquent manes like brain and eyelids and gray shades of burnt umber like eye and leaves.
All currents become brambles.
How continuing is the silent bomb and it's parsimonious juices?
You see tail as electric as the rain.
My heart is filled with respect like a glass book.
The sensual daughter protects in the affluent morning.
Wave of wave of river banks rolling down the sea.
Disinterred fill and fill.
For me they are side.
Fewer and fewer chain about another mode of pride.
Return to the homeland of the stars.
I stayed reflected and sepia under the land.