Skin Graph

As forever this light, buried in burning palms, this Christ his soul; to lose a legacy, this daughter his heart, at tears for truths. I must address you, this innocent villain, to fall by hands of love; this miracle your soul, at terrors this night, filled with Peach Rings; to die so grayly, as no-one listens, to feel this watery fire; that grave of souls, squeezing immortal rocks, flavored by inner chaos. I knew a dove, fraught this abandonment, lurking towards men; to have that feeling, abused by vultures, this mind a feral introject; to ask of love, this new-beginning, to find with time that love dies; as witnessed this soul, climbing through vestibules, at woes our neighbor’s joys; for many have secrets, as to infuse love—a woman with a thousand hats; as built this future, as strong as flights, to enchant this falcon star. I must retreat, to ponder a swan, at tears to answer this message; this torn encounter, as filtered with time, to break with pains that target; this type of soul, canvassed in purple ink, this essence a seaquake; to carve for mercy, as one so stern, to realize this tinge of dysfunction. I heard a smile, this inner crochet—a mouse as boisterous to elephants; this subtle intrigue, to capture this portrait—our swan a product of angers; to see with life, this error of thoughts, while I confess your purpose. We long for shelter, this grave invention, as to echo those needs as shattered; to float by rafts, this innocent river, while hell lurks as a shadowed friend; this grief that star, as far our horizon, where passion inflames a coppice. It had to live life, this gravel by dreams, as awakened to turmoil; where mother dies, this touch of emotion, while angered suddenly; to see confusion, this thing of hearts, to realize our sun has a name; this casual picture, this tempest by storm, alert to something frantic; this beautiful scar, this need to reach—our purpose held to ridicule; but this is love, this fragile invention, at heart a reason for claims; where love seeks itself, those interests by seeds, as to ruin something affectionate: this inner spiral; that frigid of warmth; those arts by ways of love.