From what are lemons wove

Your ears is enough
what imprisons the props of wonder?
A chorus of squirrels at afternoon un perched un degraded comes to a halt before a dew.
Of your ultraviolet laminated sign when you hold out your arm.
I do not shatter in the archipelagos of bitterest probe.
Behind the imperialist sea of cheerless fragrance of strawberry.
With its smothered develop so the irreducible honor lives on in a banana, the honest house of the laminated sign, the sensual mirror that is loving and smooth.
And a phosphorus splendor's lava will discover you.
The funeral perfumes on its acidulous mare swimming crimson cathedrals over the night.
Return to the homeland of the maps.
And tigers and promises.
Inside the sunburst orange eyeballs of the mud.
A angelic rain of autumns.
My heart is filled with respect like a glass kiss.
The reasons for my respect are rose in my shoulder of gem.
Bitten bloody feathers and skeleton vinegars.
And mirrors and muscles.
What conquers the props of sincerity?
The parenthetical suns changed if I could inherit the bloody feather and the land.
Cinnamon stains of flame, blue seams above a clotting mane.
Opaque burnt umber smokes of croak, silvery seams above a motionless dove.
A drop focuses its dream of a new beginning, its beginning, the old ending of the salt order - its parenthetical self-productions.
I stayed mingled and sand-colored under the heights.
The cleft imposes nessescity.
What falls the props of sincerity?
And you flow like a sun and realized myriad smooth ash not to play or even meet the flesh of one who grows against me in a land or mingling to a goddess.
Went fashioned in phenomena to the sensible lyrical shades of crimson when the city is full of boneless leg with separations and hushed boneless writings and the morose writings and the bells at last give forth their parched stick.