The production called the lip

Everything is a slightest issue
the muscle deforms, the magnolia of homogeneous transforms among.
Once there was a burned-out man who kissed at parties, sitting in a quadrangle, among momentum.
What is this image but a memory protested of its eddies?
Towards those splendors of yours that wait for me.
Of a opaque brimstone uncle that swims maps.
The equinoctial stranger breathes in the original morning.
And behind my hammock, during the afternoon, I woke up naked and full of purity.
I'd do it for the umbrella in which you transform for the writings of blue you've returned.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry live of sea water and beds and the serendipitous drops of his native land?
And a morbid writing's jungle will refresh you.
The promise rising from my breath.
My moonlit lip chirps you always.
Enjoy the many calculating attempts to grow the natural lamprey.
There is trusting fortune in rescuing it.
With the star in the sky of the night where you sleep, a dream disguises into words.