Slip by Sezmo

Silence, quiet, sinking into the shadows and midnight pilots. Dark encloses, whispers pose, calm in tempest swirl the violets, purple grams the pollen sons of a sun. Cross now rivers sleep, cold mud slides dreams, fish twinkle brine cousins splash scene. Curl around lips summer scents cinnamon screams, burn in ardor the left overs of tomorrow a long sigh in pools reflecting feeble leans. Lost is not gone, though validity is its own fine, here now the time slips every crime, sit though, still in the sublime. Wash waves, scrub stains of blood, the gold choking even death.