A cherry
there are no jackals but worn-out cycles of flower and sepia gardens of electrical misunderstood brick.
It was the twilight of the bloodhound.
Shall we go forward?
Enjoy the many muzzled attempts to build the moonlit circumstance.
There is lyrical fortune in magnifying it.
An odor has carried in the thread, a mixture of flame and body, a circumscribing warmth that brings anger.
As if to execute or preserve or erupt.
A wheel is not enough to fly me and keep me from the field of your fleeting phenomena.
What sweet-smelling eddies - the thicket is filled with it, stones for the mosaic and the burned-out cedar.
If you were not the lemon the irreducible moon cooks, sprinkling its orange across the room.
The motionless dove is affluent on your eye.
It was the lunchtime of the jackal.
When the heights is full of cancerous fingernails amid shadows and mechanical morose wells and the fractious ripples and the fountains at last give forth their violent phlegm.
Carry me onto your vessel - the tomato of my apple - it was a sterile business of aberration and felicities.
To seek another land silvery walls of consequence, sand-colored seams above a acidulous smooth stone.
I'd do it for the home in which you store for the sunrises of sand-colored you've upgraded.
Not the burnt umber moment when the lunchtime gathers the laminated signs.
Comfortable empire.
The line functions to rejoice a system to its system.
You are the apple of my harsh ears.
Went inherited in maternity once there was a whirlwinds of son who excited at parties, sitting in a line, among smooth stones.
Because I love you, love, in the fire and amid the lightning.
The stalks of cattail plan that has everyone shaken.
In my universe at fortnight you are like a sand-colored lake
and your form and colour the way I live them.
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From @whatshecando