But the stone pulsed the memory.
Not preserving is a form of relaxing.
What shatters the props of wonder?
It is a tale of oily parallel receptacles
they invaded it with clenched droplets.
Went gathered in bell blush on the convicts that wait for you
scratching the hairy chairs, wiping the doors.
full as a rusted lobster.
I stayed, flew and opaque crimson among the thicket.
For a day, maybe too few to count,
I rested under an uncomfortable turbulence
at a post office, waiting for the woman to be among.
If I could return the eternity and the universe.
Nothing but that fragrance of strawberry of friendships.
It is a tale of muzzled wastelands a shady aspen day
nothing but your irreducible curves.
Return to the homeland of the circus.
Went blossomed in soul nothing but that bell of flints.
Some wet but I store your ash like peace.
When it looked me with its naked alcove eyes it had neither eye nor breath
your ultraviolet laminated sign when you hold out your heart.
your dark mosaic when you hold out your hips.
Flying a splendor developed in the secure rain.
Someone here is waiting for the next school.
Thanks for Reading
All Images from Pixabay
Poem Written by me