Night's Tiara

Canvas your grope to a yellow. We are the gantry eyes that tear the fabric of time. The oath grant balds my riddle and patterns my pie. Picasso on the radio, Matisse in my tea. I have bent the hop to bristle to its brush.

Life will absorb you if its lift is implicit. We gnaw the gulp that throats itself on depth. We scrounge the iron air, burn by faith and dribble the swim birds of heaven. We do this amid echoes and hooks. We grease the flavor cracks with butter and sweat above the knob of a sticky pronoun. I nail and rub and mingle and my intentions are theorems that pause upon impact.

Conception is an incident of insoluble undulation. I run from the simulacrum because it’s an animal and not a vacation. The propeller’s wife is stunned by evocation. I ponder a cactus and discover war. I bend to the hunger of a penumbral rebellion.

What cloud listens to my fugue pass by? My spice arm is wrinkled from within. The crab smells over a personality. I impart songs that are anchored in participles. Realism laps on a bone.

We chop my scatter prowl. Bubbly quarks writhe in creating matter for the knock cough. I secrete secrets. It is dusty to take command and the extraversion is exhausting. My inflated soap floats a herd of monumental bubbles before the mailbox is even open.

I ache to remedy skates. I flex the development of bloom and move up to the sky in mockingbird jerks. The staircase yardstick accommodates the sway of an insect’s metaphor. My spin flower muscle hugs the syllables of an infrared snow. I hire what cloth I can to wear as a climate of buttons and sleeves.

Exasperation is green if it blows black if it reflects. I redeem this chew sleep with the occurrence of toads. My insides flood with emotion. I fold my sleep into indulgence. Infinity flames on a convergence of awakening and sod.

The hothouse obtains sunlight from a pot of dirt. A hectic ruffle flips my shirt. The charming surface of the airport materializes suitably as a clean punch to the language of opinion. I embrace a sublime intestine and swell with creosote talking. The connectedness of work provides enough narrative to make a thesis throb. I dab my sparks in ink and write about hands for a bundle of outcry.

The salon sternum pulls us together into a blue honesty where motion moves along in imperturbable procession, camels and stars. We shine sympathetically under the taproot drawing. Incendiary yells are catalogued as hinges. Convocation flourishes in hurled algebra. I flail my pool at the hills where a phenomenal eyeball floats in seashore testimony to an ancient hysteria called night’s tiara, and ride a thousand threads of delirious color to the edge of a pledge.