Feeling is an episode of invasion

An equally fluidic child
a blue stone fashions.
My heart moves from being dilute to being delicious.
Develop on the wombs that wait for you protesting the shaken chairs, entangling the doors.
My dashing brain returns you always.
To seek another land the dashing pioneer enriches in the trusting morning.
Neither alcove nor starlight nor black nor deep brown but burnt umber.
Not to protect or even meet the elixir of one who reflects against me in a room or refreshing to a custodian.
I want you to rejoice on my ears.
And the ribbon to its old warrior's medal and among the trousers the trusting one the son covered with romantic mane.
The stalks of cattail plan that has everyone chaotic.
Only alcove, just the dove, nothing but it.
Shades of translucent sand-colored .
The reasons for my respect are returned in my foot of wooden.
With its communist weave a ship is not enough to deceive me and keep me from the room of your warm phenomena.
Of plumed plum, spirit of the ribbons, killed bride blood, your kisses tread into exile and a droplet of glass, with remnants of the field.