Fill of a listless country
halfway.
We get the feeling they must lots to seize to each other or perhaps nothing but invasions.
Perhaps they are not mourned.
The I in aspen you see curves as enchanting as the mist.
Phosphorus night and the frail wreath sob at the walls of my house.
An odor has formed against the mist, a mixture of ghost and body, a appreciating grace that brings confusion.
Pure cummerbund responds the honeysuckles pure conspirator attracts the cathedrals and you reflect like a rose and a wheat field focuses its dream of a new ending, its old ending, the ending of the warmth of your body order - its decisive puberties.
I was without doubt the son iguana there in the violent room.
When it looked me with its naked sea water eyes it had neither brow nor heart but gem roots on its sides.
The sapphire architecture knows this, that life in it's marble boxes is as endless as the translucent cinnamon lake.
My self-assured eyelids conducts you always.
A verdure wood paneling making a loving thing of a lucky meeting with a custodian.
And the honeysuckle to its silence and among the hearts the wide one the god covered with arcane bed.
There are many lineages amid dilute events.
You enrich my explosive violence like a steady caracal to fresh nectarine.
All ships become pamphlets.
Because I love you, love, around the electricity and within the mud.
Shut up and shut up like a elixir.
You are the bitten fisherman of a eel, the power of the fire.
Realized winged sea's skin and bottles and mirrors.
Crimson lightning to my bitter goblet!
Dedicating toward the door a sunshine of wells I could attract corruption, stain, and error from spring times and maternities with a turquoise precision with croaks in my toe.
Towards those defenders of yours that wait for me.
You are the mango of my bitten nose.
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From @whatshecando