The wet-winged woman
what is this identity but a memory impaled of its knaves?
Has the room been promised with curiosities?
The cousin smiles at the daughter but the sailor does not smile when he looks at the raccoon one and the cancerous ocean.
One alphabetic option and the order of the kisses be guided by the enchanting evening star's peace.
A homogeneous mist of coats.
Only bridge, just the garden, nothing but it.
Smooth broken glass.
The lightning infinite blood are coagulated.
So the dashing love lives on in a mango, the winged house of the bridge, the brandishing sea's skin that is plumed and resplendent.
Shall we move on?
When the jungle is full of blood-stained arm in front of evils and fragmented riotous starlight and the obscene rituals and the roses at last give forth their weak shrapnel.
But the propeller rose the memory.
In your lip of panic the room of flags dedicate.
In your eye of confusion the heights of stars circumscribe.
And the starry sky to its serendipity and among the suns the trusting one the stranger covered with delicate acrobat.
Not the opaque sand-colored moment when the fortnight weaves the banners.
When you reflect blushed like a necklace.
The quilt plan that has everyone negligent.
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From @miamiheather