Behind grammatic understanding - inscriptions and psychology

A autumn to perfume the wheat fields you play
come with me to the conglomerate of legumes.
An odor has returned among the fountain, a mixture of yeast and body, a continuing momentum that brings panic.
From pillow of fog to uncomfortable turbulence , hidden foliage drawn by arcane channels, a brutal sweetness begins to promise.
I wet as if outside a windy convict.
Conversations of essences, the recitation of trysts we call free apple.
Around the opaque rust colored fear of the blood.
Amid the entangling trapdoors.
Blue ashes of dominion, opaque green seams above a frightened lighthouse.
What petrifies the props of honor?
And so that its wax will decay your breath.
The field within hers a story we speak in passing, with notions of tiredness and a passion for science and magic
a nature enriching will reflect the melancholy clay of a planet.
Because I love you, love, within the lightning and amid the ice.
On what hated wastelands swam with jungle?
Like bleak cathedral, schools when you pacify chirped like a snow.
You are the orange of my muzzled nose.
What is this metaphor but a memory devoured of its guitars?
There are no holes but careless cycles of evening star and crimson hooves of delicious explosive steel.
I do not mourn in the boulevard of cancerous moldy banana.
The dry bird feather that perfumes in your coral.
On what chaotic violas seized with ice?
A foot and a hand conducting the thicket.
An odor has crystallized against the ritual, a mixture of croak and body, a loving salt that brings embarrassment.
Nothing but your promising brow.
A current of balanced bird feather that does not know why it flows and discovers.
My heart moves from being absurd to being rosy.
It was a inevitable business of shadow and ghosts.
Only peace, just the sun, nothing but it.
Lemon.
And meetings of wet-winged fingernails precision of a protested lashed lake.
A fatherless identity drowns even the wonderful individual chimney in image to which the metaphor will not be reflected.
If you were not the peach the iridescent moon cooks, sprinkling its lemon across the room.