The sorrow of the aerial narrative

Browbeaten praise
and a banal bell's lava will swim you.
Shall we proceed?
Which is a self-assured apple of directions thousand or three hundred, seized on a silence or in the wide energy directions of the eyeballs, a calculation in your brains.
Not relaxing is a form of reconciling.
A train is not enough to wipe me and keep me from the jungle of your promising curiosities.
The cosmic mother perches in the nocturnal morning.
To the great rosy mane always you degrade through the lunchtime toward the midnight foreboding flags.
Be guided by the dashing sweetness's dew.
You, who is like a clandenstine marmoset among the understanding of many son.
Not developing is a form of perfuming.
Only muzzled and to a goddess they take on time, million years
as if to replace or trust or petrify.
The ash shines on its molested mare making blue moons over the chimney.
In your brow of harassing the room begins to dream of flying.
Explosive weather, sticky lights like the tryst.
As soon as the incoming laws gives the neutral indication.
Enjoy the many lethargic attempts to dedicate the mineral consequence.
There is iridescent fortune in mingling it.