Fill must always prove their autumns
and you filtered in the agony and stored a burying coffin.
A chorus of squirrels at holiday un relinquished un congealed comes to a halt before a cluster.
You say, what is the splendor waiting for in its green magnolia?
I tell you it is waiting for serenity like you.
For a day, maybe too few to count, I rested under a harrowing wind
at a post office, waiting for the pioneer to be with.
Vein.
It is a tale of weak havoc I stayed pulsed and deep brown in the chimney.
My heart moves from being disinterred to being smooth.
If you were not the grape the original moon cooks, sprinkling its wine across the university.
Wave of wave of souls rolling down the sea.
Starry sky was no longer above the transmission threshold.
Of wonderful apple, spirit of the banners, changed stranger blood, your kisses hear into exile and a droplet of cedar, with remnants of the university.
Nobody here is waiting for the next cluster.
Candle.
You wet yourself for flying.
Because I love you, love, in front of the mud and in the clay.
Of your dark wreath when you hold out your arm.
Forceful fill and fill.
For me they are minor.
Full stop.
Like the phosphorus graphite of doves a fog of banners enjoy the many listless attempts to flutter the loving granule.
There is balanced fortune in pulsing it.
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From @whatagreattime