the first picture

by
Are inscriptions through all your dreams that dream about me.
They're written in the language of love utilizing the alphabet
of heroes and saints, together to bloom through any appearance.

Any self of me with any self of you transformed us into poems
just to run from story to story created
by the fruitfulness of your hallucinations which visualize me.

Memories are seen even from the first picture.
So extravagantly your love rocks,
magically sheltered in the carrying stars to where you are...

poetic audience

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the loyalty of an impeccable, known " l'grand solitaire ", it is a hobbyist of dreams that's revising its priorities, adopting passionately and yet furtively, a love's course ‧ it knows that fate will not be blamed for sloppy games of the ignorant folks who fail to adjudge that a schism it is just another way to spend time with the lovely one ‧ after all, a dream has dreams to remember… by and by
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come... — catch out my poetry's nipples with the island lips of yours ‧ suck out of it... the rain of my emotions announced in the forecast of love ‧ any dose will transfer in you the energy from the nest of my stars ‧ the molecular activity of my atmosphere is gonna erect your hemisphere ‧ our happiness from the present of now will immortalize any picture falling down  ‧ the vapors of our passion will sign with pseudo name, — [end of the world]
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somewhere

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an explicit saline councilor in the deepness of my eyes, sings prominently your song its treasured susurrations bent to my heart's pond, somewhere in the right ventricle a beauty orchestrated by lungs like a Scottish bagpipe sound made to oxygenate all senses
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body blues...

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an unstoppable artistically silhouette [it's mine, not yours] a frisson into body blues concealed [that's yours, not mine] dream-makers are drawing the mood [eagerness has charm] any thought into my dreamt dreams [prove it to be what I need now] loving you, loving me is not fantasy, [even if all about it looks so alike]
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my emotion got been written at the morning coffee with the ink of dream that dreams me… the influence of mine with yours spun up to the sky for blooming in a color's custody full of desires… our lust made us confess again, how wildly about we're to each other… then… everything around us smiled
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distorting time

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the magic tips of his dreams fingers slipping sluggishly into her heart pocket caress any carnal curves of her brain then annihilates any psychic aggression by sedating her with the vaccine of love of his longing that burns smoldering the magic tips of his dreams fingers slipping sluggishly into her heart pocket is kissing the platonic texts of her lust painted by the resolutions of his universe with a distorting time in a square moon rolled in a future of an imperfect perfection and this happens just because the tips of his dreams fingers are magic...
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