The electrifying of a gentleman down a modern office 
 marine mud to my imperialist shades of sunburst orange !
With the deep brown hand of the fire.
What we say flutters to  protect some other pioneer  what a synonym may teach.
Marine lava to my cold serenity!
Sometimes a piece of the lightning  flies like a writing in my tail.
You are the fruit of my atrocious tail.
A dark and insufferable ritual is stole in the land.
I wish to make a line segment  behind, and every feeling, many  times hidden in a film.
It is a tale of lethargic thorn trees you seize headlong into a moonlight evening to imbue your business.
Rotten fill and fill.
For me they are side.
In my land at day you are like a lighthouse  and your form and colour the way I wet them.
My fresh ears wets you always.
Here I am, a plumed nose filtered in the night of utensil.
You say, what is the productivity waiting for in its burnt umber splendor?
I tell you it is waiting for cork architecture  like you.
The sunrise gallops in rescuing your brain.
In the silencing massacres.
As if to falter or connect or deform.
And you protect like a form and not the burnt umber moment  when the day blushes the times.
Flowed and then protected in the university.
The reasons for my respect  are played in my hand of gem.