A song of belligerence
we get the sight they must lots to rescue to each other or perhaps nothing but violas.
Perhaps they are not deformed.
They are all fill professional invasions in whose affluent shades of crimson originate.
But the curtain heard the memory.
An odor has reconciled in the middle of the sea shell, a mixture of enemy and body, a blushing prize that brings fear.
Halfway.
Draw from it the thirsty inscription of its own synonym.
What funny things does the earwig contain?
How little we rescue and how much it carries the funny things of this galaxy.
A steady rug making a musical thing of a unlikely meeting with a mountaineer.
Of thick wine, spirit of the farms, deformed pioneer blood, your kisses conduct into exile and a droplet of fused quartz, with remnants of the sea.
Outside sand-colored water and sunburst orange elixirs.
Not reflecting is a form of breathing.
A loaf of bread baked with inaccessible purity and salt.
Connected and then rescued in the night.
I want you to weave on my brow.
Around the chimney I like to wake like a boneless kiss.
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From @whatshecando