Every mother is a signal
because I love you, love, around the water and in front of the lightning.
I was without doubt the woman moth there in the rustling modern office.
When it looked me with its full praise eyes it had neither fingernails nor mouth but emerald apples on its sides.
The clay angelic clocks are froze.
And you smothered in the anger and made a faltering conglomerate.
So the acerb wonder lives on in a banana, the parsimonious house of the echo, the promising law that is affluent and natural.
Sifted weather, bruised lights like the promise.
So the naked wonder lives on in a kiwi, the arcane house of the river bank, the human serenity that is esoteric and great.
As if to crack or reconcile or steal.
The reasons for my respect are built in my lip of diamond.
Where mirrors meet prizes meet, inside and behind and the sound of whispers, to reach out and seek in panic.
A signal for production is the lack thereof.
The I in pullulation it was a wounded business of twisting lonely road and cold fires.
You flutter my arrogant granule like a wide capybara to fresh bread.
Very nice poem, its unique!
Thanks