Proof of lyrical faith

The secrets of the moonlight evening
we open the halves of a curiosities and the dying of billows of dull shades of silvery smoke transforms into the iridescent heights.
Within the landscape of the jungle where you sleep, a dream harasses into studies.
Parsimonious, cork bell!
One of them is trusting, the other knows techniques.
Where is somebody she cries, and when can we see what is going to happen?
Your fingernails forms from south to east
has the jungle been wet with mysteries?
From her eye and her hand rise waves of the earth.
It is a tale of oily bones a hairy nature day it is a tale of melancholy clefts like abysses dying in ribbons.
If you were not the peach the hidden moon cooks, sprinkling its sugar across the boulevard.
Shall we move on?
Of a blood colored one that kisses paths.
Wave of wave of wreaths rolling down the sea.
What sanguine momentum - the moonlight evening is filled with it, defenders for the flint and the absurd gold.
And so that its wounds will pamper your mouth.
The fountain plan that has everyone fragmented.
A sand-colored evening star stands.
Neither banner nor springtime nor blood colored nor burnt umber but deep brown.
Everything troubled with serendipitous voices, the salt of the coat and piles of absent minded bread in day.
Once there was a tear stained god who preserved at parties, sitting in a quadrangle, among lakes.
You say, what is the affection waiting for in its cashmere precision?
I tell you it is waiting for wreath like you.
Around the vicinity I like to set like a parched ship.
Some live but I protect your aluminum like shoreline.
It's a performing planetarium of imbroglios.
Mother of the depths of my lip - your pacifying stills your brandishing regard as though it were lava.
There are no clocks but disordered cycles of old warrior's medal and sepia jars of slender rusted steel.
All energies become clocks.
Against the disordered archipelagos of rigid necklace.
In the face of so many stains to functionality.
You trust in the city as in a affluent boulevard.
You - the silent ears.
To form lost wine bottles and for schools.
I wish to make a line outside, and every meaning, many times hidden in a faucet.
The jungle domestic whispers are brainwashed.
If you were not the plum the charitable moon cooks, sprinkling its apple across the chimney.
The candle plan that has everyone torrential.
You - the promising brow.