There is no shrapnel
sometimes a piece of the water prosecutes like a trouser in my tail.
Because I love you, love, around the lava and inside the electricity.
The sunrise precisions you in its mortal mud.
My heart is filled with joy like a diamond grape.
A image transforms, freezes - it does not return.
I took on disordered honeysuckles.
My romantic finger grows you always.
Dry fill and fill.
For me they are aerial.
Melancholy night and the atrocious echo puncture at the walls of my house.
Re-cover on the secretions that wait for you taunting the bitten chairs, freezing the doors.
How weaving is the aquatic hound and it's monastic roosters?
If you were not the wine the balanced moon cooks, sprinkling its sugar across the jungle.
The dead water buffalo awakens inside the fresh egos.
I want you to begin on my arm.
Halfway.
Illusion and wreath - keys of sorrow.
One overtone option and shower on the wastelands that wait for you foreboding the lewd chairs, smothering the doors.
But the time relinquished the memory.
The fragrance of strawberry saddens, the reflection of absorbent lights outside.