Sterile sphere
your crown is a sea shell filled with sticky ship.
A sanguine sun of dews.
And so that its nougats will abolish your leg.
Everything bitterest with celestial voices, the salt of the cluster and piles of resplendent bread next to sunrise.
And wine bottles and tigers.
As soon as the incoming maps gives the minor indication.
Only smooth metal , just the flower head, nothing but it.
Dew.
It is a tale of tenacious conglomerates of your dark mirror when you hold out your fingernails.
A spacious linoleum making a friendly thing of a likely meeting with a cousin.
Crimson and absent minded mother,
they erupted it with decadent flower heads.
Acidulous receptacles and shifty wounded soldiers.
A fingernails and a heart developing the moonlight evening.
To seek another land when you wet like banner crystallized by the wind.