The flowers are made of red.
We play pliers on the right side of the Southern window. The
black hands line the linens of white withdrawal, an absolute result of being
tinted so. This charming kitchen of yellow and pink and chromatic chords
crosses deep down and gives us plenty. Sometimes mental, sometimes just a
notion, the purchase of lavender sparks imaginations and visible light. What
bothers you more, the travels for the translation? No one word can mean one
thing or anything. Somewhere down the line, the white goes grey.
Did you wait for it for eating love?
In fondness for sinister, the placard reads a simple purple,
blamed torrid. There are no recessions of practical fact, no wonderness of
distracted envy of the green grave. After the sunset, blush in its guilt, the
green grows brown, then dark, then silent. Please declare all that went to
waste, the hump of the day. Black only pretends to care, like an actor, unaware
of the cause. How much hold the breath contains? How much diminish?
The blue in the wretch of my guts.