puce suede, skin and the overcast lake

it comes out of nothing these extraordinary works of art absolutely breathtaking like a dizzying blur of dried up forestry set aflame in mad arson like a tapestry of chance choice but not caught of naught but by none other than the barren earth as cracked mud, littered into their trenches is marrow ash, swap not this case slot though, for as choice lot on delivery, driveling the bipeds go with scents of the ultimate allure even cinnamon like apple pie what was will be again she stabs her like Macbeth's wife on bad drugs velvet dress blue pegging green it is all so shiny everything is swinging see the purple curtains wafting in from the doors outside crimson blood all over the black beakers her shadows have been cut out of these cinema doors so many times before down into the same setting sun tracks that trace the stars to align to swoon all in all that fall into place an offering to the seasons you always have had a grand variant of breaths you've lead me on to even see the light that refracts in the darkest orbs of deer feint in the dying fondness of old familiarities here of animals that never stop, day in and day out, non-stop a panting mighty sight with muscles scanting a puce suede bag makes it to the overcast lake then skin twists in corded scenes of tranquility producing its own input to save the grove.

CuldeSac

What are words without understanding and what is understanding without sense?

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