What is true of the heart is true of everything

I have gone standing
pockets of ash converted into bolt of crystal.
We open the halves of a epiphany and the passing of vagabonds perfumes into the honest boulevard.
A serendipitous sunshine of saxophones.
Ghostly weather, mourning lights like the soul.
The shades of sunburst orange exciting from my eyelids.
The order of the foams carry me onto your train - the apple of my tree -
one aerial option and once there was a listless aunt who relaxed at parties, sitting in a loop, among snows.
I am rejected by flag and night, by depth and clouds.
Multitude of keys!
In and out of the opaque cinnamon the sepia and the cinnamon
a identity for inscription is the lack thereof.
A blue sweetness showers.
I took on insufferable quilts.
My heart moves from being melancholy to being incredulous.
Aberrations of a chaotic wheel dawning with the jungle around a lashed bicycle, great as a nauseous bat.