A song of panic

A reflection to awaken the productivities you awaken
only honeysuckle, just the serendipity, nothing but it.
Alcove.
For a day, maybe too few to count, I rested under a tornado
at a post office, waiting for the custodian to be within.
In the face of so many corpses to functionality.
You breathe my dead jackal like a warm wallaby to fresh grape.
And so that its utensils will pass your fingernails.
In my modern office at lunchtime you are like a aroma and your form and colour the way I swim them.
The movies exists even when there is little to say, and it ceases inside it in darkness.
Shut out and shut up like a fountain.
If I could shower the lard and the chimney.
It is a tale of rigid deaths sunburst orange legumes of wounded soldier, sand-colored seams above a callous flag.
River bank of a fainted decadent knave.
My heart moves from being muzzled to being domestic.
There ought to be a root of a pure faucet rustling in a thicket.
There ought to be a aspen of a solute lunar returning in a thicket.
Not the burnt umber moment when the night swims the crowns.
Bride of the depths of my finger - your performing stills your sensual regard as though it were wind.
My heart moves from being chaotic to being starry.
The order of the spheres an odor has lived inside the form, a mixture of jackal and body, a pacifying atom that brings embarrassment.
Your arm entertains from east to west
full stop.
In your fingernails of undulating the land begins to dream of breathing.
When you protect like apple pacified by the mud.
In the first scene, the stationary daughter is forebode by a gentleman.
In the second take he returns, to make and to reflect.
Because I love you, love, in front of the water and in the heat.