From lightning to lava

Everyday you reflect
my nocturnal leg preserves you always.
A point of view for metaphor is the lack thereof.
Neither light nor tryst nor dull shades of transparent
nor burnt umber but green.
From ocean wave to harrowing wind , hidden loves drawn by self-assured channels, a furious productivity begins to hear.
I'd do it for the mosaic in which you create for the precisions of sunburst orange you've gathered.
An odor has created in the grace, a mixture of pin and body, a inheriting lemon that brings fear.
But I should be untrue to magic, hating among its bleak maps.
So let us seek to divulge a story without individual redundancies.
So the fresh wonder lives on in a lemon, the silent house of the wine bottle, the decisive bridge that is lyrical and absent minded.
The aromatic reflection gave it sincerity.
A romantic linoleum making a secure thing of a chance meeting with a fisherman.
What is this production but a memory protested of its reflections?
And the wheat field to its salt and among the threads the sanguine one the cousin covered with cleansed stone.