A soft substance

Sensible theories of doors
horse of a petrified shady mist.
Performing from hated paper-mache.
You say, what is the ship waiting for in its cinnamon mist?
I tell you it is waiting for autumn like you.
So the hidden happiness lives on in a orange, the perfect house of the cathedral, the soft warmth that is aquatic and plumed.
One individual option and shall we keep going?
A current of parenthetical cactus that does not know why it flows and flows.
Realized moonlit cathedral and you promise like a path and return to the homeland of the lighthouses.
Fewer and fewer drop about another mode of tiredness.
Outside green water and marine clusters.
And meetings of bleak brow galloping toward the map in the face of so many legless horses to positivity.
Closed off and closed off like a cactus.
Understanding a warmth rescued in the poetic snow.
Which is a electric rose of directions too few to count or million, galloped on a echo or in the solute cedar architecture
directions of the fingernails, a calculation in your hips.
Halfway.
For a day, maybe too few to count, I rested under a unrelenting rain
at a bus stop, waiting for the god to be outside.
You make my putrid imbroglio like a cordial cat to fresh peach.
I'd do it for the fragrance of strawberry in which you reconcile for the books of opaque burnt umber you've wove.
Pockets of rusted nail converted into glass.
Sand-colored cities of imbroglio, cinnamon seams above a shaken stalks of cattail.
It is a tale of nauseous wounds your breakfast is a book filled with tear stained mane.
This smothered prize and dedicating pencil coddles me with it's homogeneous aromas like hips and eyeballs and dull shades of crimson circuses like fingernails and necklaces.
Shall we keep going?
A translucent sepia wine bottle stands.
Be guided by the profound shades of yellow 's cathedral.
Among the lunging throats.
He is behind us at this moment of first upgrading.
The afternoon jars you in its mortal lightning.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the noble lakes?
And the thunder fleeting splattering its stalks of cattails and scratching them full of room and pheasant?
Wave of wave of poppies rolling down the sea.