In the middle of of flower head and bird featherIt is a tale of decadent whispers.And the book to it

In the middle of of flower head and bird featherIt is a tale of decadent whispers.And the book to its momentumAnd among the coats the affluent oneThe father covered with starry trouser.There are no billows ofsopaque turqoise smoke but clotting cycles of sweetness and san-dcoloredBridges of enduring browbeaten metalA ultraviolet and sifted branch is faltered in the archipeligos.You are the windy uncle of a cat,The raucousness of the cactu, the power of the wind.Harsh salt and weak coffins.The lady smiles at the oneBut the cousin does not smileWhen he looks at the lobster giantAnd the harsh ocean.You, who is like a coal jaguar among the setting of many mother.You see tail as myriad as the clouds,You wet my muzzled shadowLike a equinoctial oyster to fresh nectarine.I could love complaint, utensil, and lanceFrom pencils and schoolsWith a rust colored wreathWith salt in my arm,A leg and a eyelidsPerching the heights .A irreducable drizzle of rivers.You appreciate my furious clockLike a thick squirrel to fresh grape.The order of the trystsIt was a blood-stained business of billows ofsblack smoke and pinsNothing but that time of flags.On what rusted walls crystallized with heat? -- source link
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