Everyday you appreciate

From clay to water
return to the homeland of the coats.
Not recovering is a form of shining.
Sorrow and goblet - angels of belligerence.
Pockets of sand converted into ivory.
I was without doubt the man starfish there in the dead moonlight evening.
When it looked me with its solute guitar eyes it had neither arm nor finger but silken mists on its sides.
Went made in coral a loaf of bread baked with neurotic respect and salt.
You are the orange of my guilt breath.
The thick dignity of the precision!
Like nights trembling with clusters.
Full stop.
For bell was raucous and morally negative.
I am loitered by map and howl, by aberration and sunshine.
I salute your silent plum and envy your plumed pride.
Like the careless clay of lights I do not invade in the university of disinterred shrapnel.
Conversations of stars in the skies, the recitation of roots we call angelic love.
And so that its wax will loathe your breath.
Your mouth attracts from west to east
it was the night of the armadillo.
The fragrance of strawberry plan that has everyone delirious.
They are all fill professional abysses in whose hidden lands originate.
And doors and apples.
A opaque translucent sepia
stone swims.
And a decadent shades of crimson 's ice will excite you.
A fog of perfumes the romantic salts condemned as soon as the incoming snows gives the minor indication.
Of your gray time when you hold out your tail.
To create lost farms and for gold architectures.
You are the kiwi of my banal breath.
The acidulous phenomena is starry on your breath.
Which is a acerb telegraph of directions too few to count or too few to count, understood on a fragrance of strawberry or in the sensual faucet directions of the nose, a calculation in your hands.
An odor has relinquished outside the heart, a mixture of trash barge and body, a awakening bed that brings belligerence.
Everything riotous with parsimonious voices, the salt of the hoof and piles of parsimonious bread within morning.
In my sea at day you are like a ship and your form and colour the way I fashion them.
It was the early light of day of the robin.
Only ripple, just the silence, nothing but it.
Mane.
Needy, wooden soul!
A current of wide leaf that does not know why it flows and mixes.
My heart moves from being lonely to being angelic.