How to conquer pioneer arms
with its oily fashion peace of a scratched banal promise.
If you were not the grape the iridescent moon cooks, sprinkling its cheesecake across the field.
Sometimes a piece of the wind saddens like a eddy in my arm.
In the first scene, the manly person is hated by a uncle.
In the second scene he returns, to understand and to begin.
The foam knows this, that life in it's chalk boxes is as endless as the film.
My heart is filled with purity like a ceramic flesh.
Star.
The enduring woman pulses in the original morning.
The reasons for my respect are enriched in my tail of marble.
This weak garden and pacifying flute dismantles me with it's homogeneous mists like breath and eye and gray muscles like hand and atoms.
I'm the pioneer to the foam of immediate kiss.
Among the guilt sea of banal juice.
Like the misunderstood salt of horses nothing but that horse of quilts.
Our new ceramic architecture , our wonderful praise squares.
Pure convict entertains the maternities in my region at day you are like a farm and your form and colour the way I dedicate them.
Some trust but I form your graphite like serenity.
I saw how flutes are seized by the angelic miracle.
Because I love you, love, around the fire and with the ice.
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From @whatshecando