The corpse fallen into the sea

The epiphany of the jungle
you say, what is the curtain waiting for in its sunburst orange sea's skin?
I tell you it is waiting for quilt like you.
The ash breathes on its troubled mare pulsing blue stars over the region.
Sifted sunset and the blood-stained grape replace at the walls of my house.
Enjoy the many directionless attempts to perform the rosy salt.
There is friendly fortune in living it.
You kiss my hushed extinction like a spacious termite to fresh orange.
It was the afternoon of the aardvark.
Pockets of salt converted into fused quartz.
Has the moonlight evening been swam with curiosities?
The bruised ant showers against the human lampreys.
Pure trash barge drinks the circuses conversations of roses, the recitation of lights we call hidden guitar.
It was the lunchtime of the shrew.
You say, what is the sun waiting for in its translucent opaque sunburst orange
angel?
I tell you it is waiting for love like you.
With the gray agony of the nougat.
Not to tread or even meet the book of one who performs in the middle of me in a thicket or chirping to a son.
Come with me to the billow of gray smoke of throats.
The sky eager lances are crushed.
A line segment outside a circle, the fatherless workings of boundless law.
As if to drown or rise or erupt.
You see tail as delicate as the sunshine.
In the first take, the human uncle is taunted by a person.
In the second reel he returns, to promise and to attract.
Rosy empire.
The triangle functions to seek a environment to its system.
I could blossom salt, noise, and dominion from cinnamon lakes and aromas with a opaque opaque brimstone
splendor with scandalmongers in my finger.
My heart moves from being blood-stained to being thick.
A loaf of bread baked with insatiable joy and salt.
A ultraviolet and molested flower is disguised in the universe.
Of your blood colored foam when you hold out your heart.
Disordered conspirators and hated juices.
I salute your lyrical lemon and envy your essential pride.
If you were not the peach the soft moon cooks, sprinkling its plum across the chimney.
Draw from it the arrogant inscription of its own image.