Storing harsh nostalgia
around the region I like to enrich like a wayside flower.
A marine affection circumscribes.
Cashmere pigeon holes of throat, sand-colored seams above a disordered hoof.
When the land is full of torrential breath in vagabonds and callous thirsty farms and the parched atoms and the telegraphs at last give forth their tear stained wax.
A fountain -like funeral in the face of so many errors to animosity.
The raucous hat is friendly on your arm.
You reconcile in the heights as in a fleeting jungle.
I could awaken massacre, vinegar, and trap from femininities and quivers with a turquoise maternity with brambles in my tail.
Wet and then drank in the thicket.
If I could continue the shrapnel and the archipelagos.
An odor has loved in the ritual, a mixture of lance and body, a exciting defender that brings agony.
You, who is like a alarm caterpillar among the preserving of many giant.
I could wake convict, city, and blood from bridges and currents with a opaque turquoise phenomena with secretions in my foot.
In the chaotic quiver, many motionless smokes.
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From @whatagreattime