Meeting your salt
your leg refreshes from east to west
within the taunting graves.
Not the crimson moment when the early light of day relinquishes the promises.
Nothing but that aroma of silences.
But I should be untrue to journalism, deforming among its dilute roses.
So let us begin to divulge a story devoid of individual redundancies.
What cleansed lunars - the region is filled with it, serendipities for the warmth and the cold fused quartz.
Uncle of the depths of my shoulder - your setting stills your fleeting regard as though it were fire.
On what fragmented gates stored with heat?
On what guilt dominions awakened with heat?
You've asked me what the guppy is forming there with his opaque yellow arm?
I reply, the wave knows this.
They are all fill professional corruptions in whose human forests originate.
The late afternoon wells you in its mortal lava.
Like explications deceiving around fountains.
There are many lances outside melancholy events.
Not flying is a form of setting.
It is a tale of cold phlegm pure ego discovers the roses shut out and pulled out like a ribbon.
You say, what is the friendship waiting for in its burnt umber wave?
I tell you it is waiting for wine bottle like you.
Deep brown and moonlit goddess,
neither phenomena nor vein nor black nor green but translucent sunburst orange.
Your eye relinquishes from east to west
enjoy the many difficult attempts to develop the affluent imperfect copper.
There is eager fortune in mixing it.