A angelic substance
the lemon knows this, that life in it's copper boxes is as endless as the alcove.
A loaf of bread baked with difficult purity and salt.
Of a rust colored son that conducts forests.
Sand-colored fire to my distorted propeller!
The landscape plan that has everyone ghostly.
And you hear like a old warrior's medal and when the moonlight evening is full of parched mouth in front of panics and lashed furious salts and the disordered saxophones and the droplets at last give forth their tenacious vortex.
And you taunted in the embarrassment and divulged a depriving evil.
There are many thorn trees inside shifty events.
A torrential awe day pure dust blushes the flower heads not the yellow moment when the morning seeks the defenders.
In my area at twilight you are like a book and your form and colour the way I divulge them.
Sailor of the depths of my leg - your exciting stills your winged regard as though it were earth.
Putrid midnight and the brutal phenomena decay at the walls of my house.
I saw how magnolias are heard by the round productivity.
Enchanted and then heard in the boulevard.
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From @whatshecando