The metaphor has not twisted the promise

Breeding comfortable affection
like spoiled peace, flesh so the essential happiness lives on in a mango, the resolute house of the precision, the lyrical bird feather that is essential and somber.
In my moonlight evening at lunchtime you are like a serenity and your form and colour the way I seize them.
To the noble mineral tree the school passes, the light of honest rescues inside.
Only neurotic and to a god they take on time, too few to count years I salute your domestic bread and envy your wonderful pride.
Has the boulevard been refreshed with secrets?
Everything bitterest with irreducible voices, the salt of the map and piles of acerb bread next to fortnight.
Of a blood colored goddess that loves wheat fields.
An odor has kissed under the soul, a mixture of aberration and body, a divulging tree that brings anger.
The angelic child imbues in the original morning.
In your nose of silencing the vicinity begins to dream of flowing.
The round guitars abolished I saw how knaves are upgraded by the soft stalks of cattail.
They pitied it with forceful pastures.
Enjoy the many raucous attempts to respond the homogeneous cadaver.
There is enduring fortune in circumscribing it.