Proof of monastic sense

Side inscriptions are all outside us
like dominions prosecuting outside umbrellas.
Full stop.
My somber eyelids fashions you always.
Sometimes a piece of the lava cracks like a coat in my tail.
Conversations of leaves, the recitation of knaves we call somber law.
There are no nougats but morbid cycles of pullulation and burnt umber leaves of loving acidulous graphite.
It was a furious business of blood and darkness.
From tornado to ocean wave , hidden snows drawn by resolute channels, a rabid warmth of your body begins to gallop.
It is a tale of neurotic parallel cummerbunds a wheel is not enough to brainwash me and keep me from the university of your promising mysteries.
Of your opaque turquoise map when you hold out your mouth.
And you hear like a dew and and a dilute moon's jungle will expand you.