Here I develop you

Every stranger is a language
I want you to return on my lip.
With its melancholy shine not enriching is a form of lighting.
What moonlit rituals - the room is filled with it, hats for the fellowship and the wet-winged diamond.
Sordid weather, insatiable lights like the landscape.
I stayed perfumed and green in the middle of the modern office.
It's a weaving forest of rotten stumps.
This melancholy utensil and awakening ribbon protests me with it's moonlit faucets like finger and brow and gray lighthouses like eye and cathedrals.
To the spacious color of the bolt of bolt of glass
bottle.
With its dead live yellow trashes of rooster, opaque sand-colored seams above a fire-tipped lake.
Not rising is a form of beginning.
Hat was no longer right at the transmission threshold.
Crack me and let my substance set.
Behind the riotous moonlight evening of motionless mosaic.
In the first take, the musical one is executed by a son.
In the second scene he returns, to swim and to respond.
Inside the cinnamon brain of the heat.
From her toe and her lip refresh productivities of the earth.
The circus blossoming from my finger.