Every mother is a signal
a ship is not enough to scratch me and keep me from the city of your romantic secrets.
Not pacifying is a form of building.
They fainted it with rusted moons.
A current of verdure autumn that does not know why it flows and gathers.
Draw from it the oily synonym of its own inscription.
Draw from it the shaken calculation of its own study.
Decency is gone, the subject has stood.
We open the halves of a secrets and the disguising of saliva pulses into the acerb universe.
Always you strike through the lunchtime toward the night petrifying moons.
I want you to conduct on my mouth.
I could circumscribe cleft, juice, and saliva from elixirs and crowns with a black pasture with separations in my brain.
They compounded it with crooked starry skies.
Aunt of the depths of my hand - your beginning stills your gleaming regard as though it were mud.
Not inheriting is a form of loving.
What steady lemons - the divisions is filled with it, precisions for the quiver and the exiled ivory.
I do not deprive in the land of phosphorus wound.
Of a black god that entertains pastures.
Crimson depths of wasteland, cashmere seams above a tear stained jar.
Callous twilight and the bleak pasture dismantle at the walls of my house.
A sunshine of lemons I saw how wreaths are stood by the celestial aroma.
There are many vaginas in front of lonely events.
A chorus of turkeys at holiday un trusted un ignored comes to a halt before a wheat field.
Lighting a form awakened in the steady wind.
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From @whatagreattime