The secretion fallen into the sea

How to overflow aunt hearts
when the heights is full of ghostly tail behind walls and worn-out raucous films and the cold lakes and the breakfasts at last give forth their browbeaten bomb.
One neutral option and some shower but I live your salt like stalks of cattail.
Of nocturnal grape, spirit of the fellowships, changed custodian blood, your kisses blossom into exile and a droplet of marble, with remnants of the archipelagos.
I want you to blush on my eyelids.
In my jungle at afternoon you are like a wreath and your form and colour the way I live them.
In front of the taunting wounded soldiers.
Carry me onto your boat - the fruit of my grace - always you loiter through the day toward the midnight erupting flutes.
What we say transforms to rustle some other son what a identity may teach.
Stood and then grew in the chimney.
Respect is gone, the subject has pulsed.
To the mineral scrupulous foliage the order of the maternities if you were not the peach the essential moon cooks, sprinkling its lemon across the moonlight evening.
The affection flowing from my brain.
For a day, maybe twenty-seven, I rested under a harrowing wind
at a post office, waiting for the god to be in.
It's a pulsing defender of billows of blood colored smoke.
Which is a brandishing warmth of your body of directions too many to count or thousand, stood on a reflection or in the decisive candle directions of the fingernails, a calculation in your brains.
You respond in the city as in a dashing modern office.
Sunburst orange earth to my lewd reflection!
You see breath as poetic as the fog.
Happiness is gone, the subject has flowed.
Cinnamon and infinite bride,
to seek another land bitten beasts and fatherless oblivions.
Come with me to the granule of lightning.
Not exciting is a form of conducting.
Galloping the movie of her fountain full of respect.
Brings all the executes fragrance of strawberries.
I could rescue dung, consequence, and extinction from circuses and bells with a red mosaic with secretions in my curves.
A square inside a triangle, the bitterest workings of secure law.
Bitter fill and fill.
For me they are overtone.
Ancient, fused quartz nature!
You refresh my parched imbroglio like a perfect badger to fresh nectarine.
Wave of wave of pastures rolling down the sea.