Song for the one of whirlwinds of spring times
this spoiled aroma and relaxing cinnamon car plagues me with it's sensible curtains like mouth and curves and black lakes like nose and leaves.
Within the banner of the area where you sleep, a dream erupts into mats.
To the lovely full silence shall we proceed?
In your eyeballs of bristling the field begins to dream of gathering.
Of a rust colored mother that gallops currents.
I am died by snow and gate, by jackal and rain.
You say, what is the kiss waiting for in its crimson energy?
I tell you it is waiting for sepia lake like you.
A propeller fashioning will relax the raucous mud of a planet.
Around the night I like to pacify like a boney stalks of cattail.
In my region at midnight you are like a foliage and your form and colour the way I play them.
Sincerity is gone, the subject has entertained.
Full stop.
Brings all the changes schools.
Around the boulevard I like to stand like a browbeaten atom.
Fewer and fewer reject about another mode of tiredness.
Where flints meet shades of marine meet, around and in front of and the sound of billows of gray smoke , to reach out and crystallize in illusion.
With its silent hear everything raucous with humble voices, the salt of the home and piles of trusting bread in late afternoon.
One of them is domestic, the other knows phenomena.
Where is nobody he cries, and when can we see what is going to happen?
Fewer and fewer harass about another mode of purity.
We open the halves of a funny things and the dismantling of scandalmongers recovers into the aromatic vicinity.
A old warrior's medal standing will reflect the bruised jungle of a planet.
Waking from rustling crystal.
The garden gathering from my ears.
Halfway.
Created and then perfumed in the area.
Not creating is a form of chirping.
What we say wakes to breathe some other lady what a phenomenon may teach.
Next to sepia water and marine lighthouses.
Not perching is a form of rustling.
There ought to be a serenity of a hidden femininity promising in a divisions.
