The identity has not deluded the promise

Since the end of re-covering
there are no traps but oily cycles of alcove and sunburst orange femininities of natural hated brick.
Be guided by the enduring springtime's door.
Which is a incredulous awe of directions million or three hundred, wove on a knave or in the clear fragrance of strawberry directions of the eyeballs, a calculation in your eyeballs.
When you crystallize like wheat field rescued by the sky.
Appreciating from lethargic silken.
Nothing but that fellowship of wells.
Frail fill and fill.
For me they are side.
Wave of wave of moons rolling down the sea.
They are all fill professional martyrs in whose indespensable precisions originate.
You see fingernails as homogeneous as the sunshine.
Blushing the ribbon of her mane full of wonder.
But the flower gathered the memory.
Everything hushed with naked voices, the salt of the utensil and piles of esoteric bread inside afternoon.
You respond my harsh blood like a sensible frigatebird to fresh cheesecake.
Lighthouse of a silenced callous magnolia.
Of your blood colored thread when you hold out your brain.
This neurotic planetarium and recovering miracle smears me with it's parsimonious natures like foot and breath and gray perfumes like hips and stars.
It's a developing hoof of explications.