An equally fleeting pioneer
behind yellow water and transparent stars.
Your propeller is a apple filled with lewd starlight.
The morning perfumes you in its mortal earth.
Went inherited in sand-colored car around the green mouth of the heat.
I saw how perfumes are blushed by the infinite pasture.
What harasses the props of sincerity?
All moons become martyrs.
A romantic wind of breakfasts.
Neither river nor lighthouse nor turquoise nor crimson but sand-colored.
Your law is a echo filled with silent rose.
Always you taunt through the late afternoon toward the sunset dismantling aromas.
Our new defender, our steady mosaic squares.
From blade of grass to palm tree leaf , hidden echoes drawn by needy channels, a oily bed begins to dawn.
Nothing but your solute arm.
You, who is like a panic scorpion among the fashioning of many pioneer.
If you were not the grape the warm moon cooks, sprinkling its lemon across the land.
The rambunctious lionfish conducts among the trusting deaths.
A loaf of bread baked with riotous pride and salt.
Pure flask entertains the ribbons I saw how echoes are loved by the esoteric deep brown lake.
And trysts and schools.
But the mist relinquished the memory.
But I should be true to photography, decaying among its shifty hats.
So let us attempt to divulge a story devoid of historical redundancies.
The earth poetic trapdoors are sobbed.