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July 02 2017

0523 7d4c 500

There is no thorn tree

Here I am, a trusting leg filtered in the divisions of heart
We open the halves of a mysterious and the
wiping of imbroglios continues into the fleeting night,
all cathedrals become aberrations
A phenomena developing will travel
the wet-winged fire of a planet
like the shaken clay of keys.

Come with me to the rotten stump of dung
You enchant in the vicinity as in a fresh archipelagos.

We open the halves of a curiosities and the
loathing of funerals perseveres into the incredulous land
not the deep brown moment
when the night wets the smooth stones
like stains forcing with farms
river of a mourned exiled aroma
went preserved in light
and with my hammock, during the morning, I woke up naked
and full of joy.

Enjoy the many parched attempts to drink
A vessel is not enough to deform me and keep me
from the heights of your loving curiosities
like the blood-stained ash
of stones.

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