iqmagi

Dearest Mon Ami,

The bell flower and Calla bundles of green and bone white clutched in the grandfathered siren hidden deep within the blood red oceans and pirouettes of charred angelics brandising the swan meridian of rusted horns left since the hand shake with the burning man.

Could there ever have been a bay window more deeply suited? Silk derogatives of milk fed pefume threaded in callous moisture peeling the burgandy spools of velvet paper bought during the infancy of paris.

Now, annointed sky... the blue man and spacious commodody of madness. The flint of this asparin seduces me to the laws of overwhelming kindness.

I am on my knees, watching the butterfly consume the night and invariably fall like acorn from a diseased tree.

Yours,

~S~