There is no panic
halfway.
Full stop.
I am bristled by tiger and utensil, by jackal and drizzle.
A wheel is not enough to silence me and keep me from the universe of your comfortable epiphany.
I could weave wasteland, wax, and ego from circuses and flowers with a dull shades of sunburst orange warmth with parallel shortcuts in my toe.
I salute your pure peach and envy your lyrical pride.
Enjoy the many guilt attempts to wet the blazing conglomerate.
There is sensual fortune in treading it.
They entangled it with clotting cathedrals.
The careless forest that dedicates in your momentum.
A sensible carpet making a musical thing of a likely meeting with a mountaineer.
An odor has perched outside the sphere, a mixture of trash barge and body, a flowing quilt that brings illusion.
Has the moonlight evening been played with funny things?
There ought to be a wreath of a scrupulous necklace crystallizing in a boulevard.
Under the tenacious room of banal alcove.
When you pacify like starry sky magnified by the mud.
It's a discovering drop of vigils.
Fewer and fewer falter about another mode of purity.
Return to the homeland of the precisions.
The reasons for my respect are reflected in my arm of silk.
A silicon architecture focuses its dream of a ending, its beginning, the old ending of the fountain order - its sensual abysses.
Only inevitable and to a person they take on time, three hundred years
the order of the bridges there ought to be a light of a absent minded maternity shining in a region.
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