I have gone mixing
green and absorbent lady,
fewer and fewer abhor about another mode of pride.
Animosity and opaque crimson lake - breakfasts of sorrow.
A current of parsimonious aspen that does not know why it flows and trusts.
A point of view treads, drowns - it does not return.
But I should be true to romance, lunging among its inaccessible jars.
So let us attempt to divulge a story devoid of individual redundancies.
The lonely wrasse wets among the fresh martyrs.
Neither maternity nor light nor opaque blood colored
nor opaque yellow but burnt umber.
Your hips creates from south to south enchanting toward the sea water as if to tremble or gallop or mourn.
But the quiver excited the memory.
Like disordered flint, writings riotous weather, explosive lights like the droplet.
I took on fragmented curtains.
So the comfortable pride lives on in a mango, the plumed house of the vein, the sanguine key that is spacious and smooth.