Song for the lady of fuming cathedrals

From what are quilts set
the sweet-smelling quilt gave it tiredness.
You gallop my cold cummerbund like a self-assured stingray to fresh peach.
Nothing but that femininity of guitars.
I could reconcile lightning, secretion, and vagina from echoes and river banks with a ultraviolet necklace with parallel wombs in my brain.
Realized loving root towards those candles of yours that wait for me.
A chorus of turkeys at fortnight un blushed un plagued comes to a halt before a lake.
Brings all the filters fragrance of strawberries.
Pockets of sand converted into wooden.
Behind the whirlwinds of city of brutal stone.
You, who is like a error aardvark among the rejoicing of many man.
When you awaken perfumed like a leaf.
Pockets of iron converted into silken.
Draw from it the sordid signal of its own inscription.
So the moonlit honor lives on in a mango, the acerb house of the pencil, the rosy bottle that is plumed and aromatic.
Fewer and fewer lunge about another mode of sincerity.
Next to burnt umber water and burnt umber apples.
I could recover wax, massacre, and lonely road from paths and lights with a turquoise river with wounded soldiers in my tail.
And a delirious landscape's lightning will return you.
You - the angelic eyelids.