Proof of real abstraction
sometimes a piece of the mud condemns like a lighthouse in my heart.
Which is a full promise of directions too many to count or too many to count, gathered on a cathedral or in the indespensable movie directions of the eyelids, a calculation in your brains.
I'm the cousin to the fragrance of strawberry of immediate light.
In the riotous land of barbarous river.
A loop in a triangle, the difficult workings of profound law.
An odor has woke outside the mirror, a mixture of puberty and body, a hearing eddy that brings embarrassment.
In your mouth of shaking the sea begins to dream of hearing.
Next to the sunburst orange finger of the water.
Create on the felicities that wait for you lunging the shady chairs, hating the doors.
They mourned it with directionless leaves.
It lives like a film outside the book.
Your springtime is a telegraph filled with directionless writing.
I salute your winged grape and envy your monastic pride.
A crimson map blushes.
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From @whatshecando