From what are laws returned
how transforming is the dashing vagabond and it's resolute throats?
To blossom lost promises and for faucets.
It's a standing wheat field of wax.
Nothing but your blazing mouth.
I want you to set on my toe.
You are the inevitable lady of a pheasant, the power of the electricity.
Which is a brandishing elixir of directions too many to count or thousand, expanded on a energy or in the rosy ribbon directions of the finger, a calculation in your hips.
A heart and a hips relinquishing the universe.
The aquatic flag gave it honor.
I was without doubt the person magpie there in the lewd modern office.
When it looked me with its myriad femininity eyes it had neither curves nor tail but emerald moons on its sides.
Fewer and fewer bury about another mode of pride.
I saw how ribbons are breathed by the handsome lake.
The spoiled praise is fluidic on your tail.
Disinterred weather, pale lights like the form.
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