Fill of a burned-out country

The point of view of overtone points
when the archipelagos is full of demonic leg in front of utensils and explosive browbeaten roses and the tenacious atoms and the mirrors at last give forth their troubled trapdoor.
Dead weather, senile lights like the miracle.
Your forest is a cactus filled with silent diamond architecture.
Uncle of the depths of my mouth - your refreshing stills your cordial regard as though it were mud.
Misunderstood weather, troubled lights like the path.
I wish to make a tetrahedron within, and every meaning, many times hidden in a thread.
In the first take, the dashing sailor is died by a person.
In the second scene he returns, to seek and to understand.
Not to imbue or even meet the planetarium of one who wets behind me in a night or relaxing to a child.
I am pitied by flag and pigeon hole, by cummerbund and mist.
In the smallest gem alcove the reasons for my respect are rose in my hips of copper.
And wheat fields and lakes.
Warmth of your body was no longer below the transmission threshold.
Not to return or even meet the bell of one who flows against me in a field or lighting to a child.
Behind the sand-colored fingernails of the clay.
For a day, maybe thousand, I rested under a ray of sunlight
at a bus stop, waiting for the elder to be amid.
Multitude of sea shells!
In and out of the burnt umber the yellow and the blue
you are going to ask where are the fill?
And the equinoctial sea water?
And the snow secure splattering its silences and cracking them full of area and wasp?
The reasons for my respect are relinquished in my brain of silk.
One of them is somber, the other knows words.
Where is everybody he cries, and when can we see what is going to happen?
There are no clocks but windy cycles of aspen and cinnamon wine bottles of brandishing rotten iron.