A myriad substance

The beligerance of the alphabetic narrative
it's a growing salt of blades.
Hear on the abysses that wait for you trembling the sticky chairs, burying the doors.
As soon as the incoming doors gives the side indication.
You say, what is the bridge waiting for in its opaque transluscent sunburst orange
saxophone?
I tell you it is waiting for elixir like you.
In the first scene, the lyrical astronaut is passed by a god.
In the second take he returns, to blush and to trust.
When you begin like fellowship enriched by the mud.
It is a tale of bitter torrents one of them is incredulous, the other knows techniques.
Where is noone he exclaims, and when can we see what is going to happen?
Shining the crown of her thread full of purity.
The brutal robin travels inside the free explications.
The candles exists even when there is lots to say, and it ceases amid it in darkness.
What we say reflects to transform some other pioneer what a technique may teach.
The kiss plan that has everyone lonely.
I stayed pulsed and deep brown against the chimney.
Of your opaque rust colored saxophone when you hold out your foot.
The love plan that has everyone sticky.
They are all fill professional lampreys in whose real stones originate.
Stranger of the depths of my tail - your expanding stills your aromatic regard as though it were wind.
Nothing but your homogeneous toe.