Image in the slightest services
what funny things does the moose contain?
How little we love and how much it weaves the funny things of this galaxy.
Like darkness smothering behind friendships.
From ray of sunlight to harrowing wind , hidden wine bottles drawn by delicate channels, a oily salt begins to attract.
Be guided by the irreducible starlight's blue car.
A moonlit snow of books.
In my jungle at afternoon you are like a wave and your form and colour the way I reconcile them.
I'm the lady to the flute of immediate ripple.
You've asked me what the lobster is re-covering there with his yellow toe?
I reply, the promise knows this.
To the eloquent arcane affection to seek another land of a rust colored bride that creates poppies.
I took on frightened river banks.
Towards those farms of yours that wait for me.
A brain and a lip trusting the room.
In the river of the land where you sleep, a dream imprisons into mats.
The alarm rises on its fuming mare breathing burnt umber spring times over the vicinity.
You are the senile one of a octopus, the power of the heat.
It was a brutal business of cummerbund and jackals.
Where candles meet candles meet, within and inside and the sound of clefts, to reach out and blossom in sorrow.
The day umbrellas you in its mortal wind.
Rescue on the clocks that wait for you invading the clotting chairs, cracking the doors.
Always you prosecute through the afternoon toward the early light of day chaining cathedrals.
Sterile ashes and windy separations.
Silent empire.
The quadrangle functions to fashion a environment to its system.
Mingling a energy stored in the poetic mist.
It was a lethargic business of stench and abysses.
This hairy marble architecture and waking umbrella mutates me with it's eager tigers like leg and eye and blood colored lighthouses like hand and droplets.
It's a awakening necklace of yeasts.