And I will never rest with my head on your bosom; those three eyes of nines and your cusp of Jerusalem; they had glares like beacon men of nights,

They were a serpent kind of loving where you were just their vocals hemorrhaging through a collapse of their wormholes; a journey through your fears.

Harold was his name; a devil of superficial strengths and grays of smoke out of his mouth, such a cooling between the sheets, madam,

I remember the day like it was just thirteen hours, I made you sweat and you called to the thunders of his stature as he was your snake man.

The diagrams; a colossal fortress of clicks and clocks, time a quintessence of you and your serpentine Hox,

Oh the capillaries of his meager shafts, the goldenrod of his strike; it was no wonder you crept and he came.

There appeared before me seldom a marble eyed woman; Scotia with her silks of flesh and fondness, half of me,

Threes born of shame; a womb hovers in graphic nature beyond imagination and there it became; caresses of tongues.

I recalled it being something of a gift to me; seeing the mortals of her ligaments in shifts, graphic natures they were certainly and profoundly,

Serpentine, oh correction of this mind; have they begotten a child of mother Miranda? To twist such a sister like so many others.

I’m in the cathouse seeing figures of sensuality; nobody lifts me like she does, a passive petal but I cannot see much else,

Snatches of my fears embody me as well, a holy visual impacting all of my desires; there is nobody here but me.

Here I am, a stupor of your dreams and wishes; genie man who is but a stow of rationale, formidably in hell,

And then the thumps of denial twist me into your dollhouse so I can see the world through your windows; fours of thread.

Eyes lie in the house of flies,
Bees live in the highs of trees,
Ghosts hide in the flesh of hosts,
Hands run through the quicks of sands.

And I will never rest with my hand on your bosom,
They were a serpent kind of loving,
Harold was his name,
I remember the day like it was just thirteen hours.

Serpentine the sense of worship was an enigma in these years for he was the stigma; Hox and the figment, a darkly,

Finally; it had begun, an apparent mishap of a renholder juiced and squeezed by the meaty holds for his widow.

She called him Vismund; a name so familiar like he was a booklet of open memories, reveries as she recalled them,

Hox the severity of myths and the intensity of hooperstan with his witty eyes; two golden beams he assumed and adored.

Eyes lie in the house of flies,
Bees live in the highs of trees,
Ghosts hide in the flesh of hosts,
Hands run though the quicks of sands…

The fives of serpentine’s figments were but a coo, metamorphosis in definitive approaches to his collapse; a way to define his life,

Window lapse the moon shadows of time; a star painted red indicates the heroin of his peaking sensibility; the star loses its way.

Painted red, sarcophagus phobias; the moonlapse torturer was the answer to his reverie; a labyrinth of woes,

The world reforms in the shape of a stone; serpentine Hox a maverick of many a widows and his threshold of cravat men upon it.

Seeking home; eternity of woes, a gathering of barons; nothing ever lasts and things do come at once, the battle in Aragon; a reverie of Christos and Serpentine lives.

Serpentine lives; Hox the pamphlets of Women; Serpentine lives.

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