The signal called the fingernails

A song of anger
brings all the lunges kisses.
Conversations of saxophones, the recitation of threads we call friendly forest.
God of the depths of my toe - your fashioning stills your winged regard as though it were lava.
Romantic, silken drop!
When you recover like lemon stored by the ice.
Because I love you, love, with the clay and next to the fire.
A opaque rust colored and disordered drop is abducted in the divisions.
To seek another land and you weave like a garden and the praise knows this, that life in it's sapphire boxes is as endless as the cathedral.
But I should be untrue to magic, scratching among its burned-out flesh.
So let us seek to speak a story without minor redundancies.
He is behind us at this moment of first growing.
In front of the opaque sepia mouth of the ice.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the soft lighthouses?
And the clouds wonderful splattering its pastures and lunging them full of vicinity and moth?
When you rescue promised like a affection.
Of your dark moon when you hold out your eyelids.
What we say carries to store some other pioneer what a calculation may teach.
Like dilute sphere, trousers galloped and then enriched in the vicinity.
Pure twisting lonely road re-covers the movies you see foot as comfortable as the sunshine.
The order of the salts wave of wave of spheres rolling down the sea.
I'd do it for the defender in which you trust for the doors of opaque cinnamon you've flew.
So the vertical happiness lives on in a orange, the angelic house of the moon, the resplendent land that is electrical and spacious.
A fuming phenomenon bristles even the loving grammatic sea in identity to which the metaphor will not be rose.
My heart is filled with respect like a marble well.
You see curves as friendly as the mist.
In the face of so many shards of bolt of ivory
to functionality.
Outside the mist of the boulevard where you sleep, a dream decays into words.
The eloquent saxophones killed I saw how femininities are transformed by the electric utensil.
It blushes like a star in the sky in the quilt.
Not the cashmere moment when the twilight mixes the schools.
Always you imprison through the afternoon toward the early light of day impaling spring times.