Jul 19, 2018
In the likelihood of the macaw & the passerbyer that wilted to the despair, I apologize to thee; For my sculpture is fiending thy glass "blotted" moisture. When it's blade pierces violet I see beams & bluish meadows bleed tarnished eyelashes. Oh how thy stomach bursted with Caribbean seams drenched in the loss of words. King Suicide, return my delusion & scorch my grandeur to thy mothers palms that can't trace humility without peasants. Give them your ailments; subdued vices tamed massive. Thy heart winced & carried Autumn to it's wake, so let thee be hurtful for I am embarrased.