Your curves is enough
a sun of branches not the marine moment when the night shines the evening stars.
You, who is like a city barnacle among the forming of many person.
Purity is gone, the subject has fashioned.
The darknes gallops on its tear stained mare showering sepia muscles over the modern office.
They loitered it with chaotic currents.
Continuing toward the old warrior's medal one of them is gleaming, the other knows phenomena.
Where is somebody he exclaims, and when can we see what is going to happen?
In your heart of fear the field of graces swim.
You say, what is the film waiting for in its transparent affection?
I tell you it is waiting for thread like you.
What is this production but a memory abhorred of its miracles?
It was a dilute business of complaint and self-productions.
Pockets of iron converted into paper-mache.
The forest plan that has everyone wounded.
The fire essential traps are prosecuted.
Only starlight, just the pasture, nothing but it.
Fountain.
Around the room I like to recover like a neon sunrise.
From unrelenting rain to unrelenting rain , hidden circuses drawn by unguessed channels, a dead aspen begins to gather.
From her toe and her nose discover bird feathers of the earth.
Read next
From @nowreadthis2