Your eyes shimmer like the surface of a singing gong.
There’s a want present, to be led by the hand through
2 or maybe 3 small pastures.
Monthly, fingernails form as the moon with her, halo.
Luminous, palanquins run on wheels one night, a year.
Upset, the milk jar spills and condenses, tears.
That track is slick with rain,
Your gums lock hands with the money of your gloss teeth,
And the here where no when lies turns amongst the cut hay.
There’s a convention of chasing horse on foot.
There’s no need to bring the tanner over the hearth.
There’s coops full of eggs across the vaulted border.
I can’t help but smile at your cautious strands of why.
Of how.
I have no clues as to the tempest of your heels.
Their tac.
I will consume 4 visages, emerald.
As rings.
To catch the final note.
To read your palms with ice, earth and fire.
To understand the sky for one flash of of.
Of it.
Of it, there is more.
Of it, there is not enough.
Of it, the trunk sucks dust.
Of it, the lines vibrate outwards in the form of song.
For it, shimmers like the surface of a singing gong.
immaturephilosophy 