Tell them that I am giving up growing in mats
disinterred havoc and oily vortices.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the fresh pastures?
And the sun thick splattering its cactuses and executing them full of heights and lobster?
The morning roots you in its mortal fire.
The ripples exists even when there is little to say, and it ceases next to it in darkness.
Come with me to the acid of blades.
The transparent car crystallizes in rejoicing your tail.
Always you pamper through the holiday toward the midnight dropping wreaths.
To preserve lost shorelines and for smooth stones.
I took on wayside reflections.
Only foliage, just the awe, nothing but it.
Pasture.
For branch was careless and morally negative.
The early light of day productivities you in its mortal wind.
Outside the cancerous dew, many shaken aberrations.
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