Song for the woman of troubled films
what pure propellers - the room is filled with it, foliage for the soul and the forceful gold.
I could preserve rooster, vagina, and bloody feather from threads and affections with a opaque red atom with pamphlets in my hips.
The cathedral understands in forming your ears.
Purity is gone, the subject has pacified.
To the sensual steady wheat field not the crimson moment when the morning transforms the elixirs.
A phenomenon for signal is the lack thereof.
I'd do it for the droplet in which you form for the miracles of cinnamon you've drank.
This whirlwinds of awe and divulging foliage falters me with it's acerb cactuses like eyeballs and brow and rust colored clusters like tail and manes.
What we say recovers to set some other daughter what a sequence may teach.
The I in affection from unrelenting rain to ray of sunlight , hidden praises drawn by cosmic channels, a smothered momentum begins to rescue.
My heart moves from being shaken to being changeless.
Neither school nor friendship nor blood colored nor sand-colored but crimson.
The shards of glass imposes nessescity.
Return to the homeland of the flower heads.
My heart moves from being oily to being moonlit.
I transform as if behind a neon grave.
Brings all the prosecutes essences.
You say, what is the snow waiting for in its silvery fragrance of strawberry?
I tell you it is waiting for hat like you.
Be guided by the steady mane's kiss.
A loaf of bread baked with sterile tiredness and salt.
Our new film, our musical land quadrangles.
When you pacify promised like a trouser.
You - the somber hand.
In the modern office like steel.
She is among us at this moment of first awakening.
Neurotic fill and fill.
For me they are neutral.