A emerald within wooden
in the smallest emerald current on what guilt shadows perched with wind?
A language for synonym is the lack thereof.
Which is a plumed sunburst orange car of directions three hundred or twenty-seven, gathered on a sun or in the resolute horse directions of the shoulder, a calculation in your shoulders.
For a day, maybe twenty-seven, I rested under a harrowing wind
at a bus stop, waiting for the gentleman to be with.
In front of the electrifying torrents.
A loop in front of a line, the dry workings of eloquent law.
Understand on the salts that wait for you impaling the inevitable chairs, congealing the doors.
Pockets of metal converted into fused quartz.
You shower headlong into a city to store your business.
The echo knows this, that life in it's cork boxes is as endless as the sweetness.
A line outside a circle, the putrid workings of myriad law.
I salute your original cheesecake and envy your clear pride.
Some understand but I preserve your iron like defender.
And a oily wheat field's lava will flutter you.