hellsforheroes

Summer rain salvation, just me and her, destiny and me with a reservation for a hotel in my dell, a delightful tiny watercourse running into the bigger and grand, the middle ocean and its muttered inky blinking sand. Just a simple little nod, from the communes of love, a look and wink, a cursed pepper, and devoted soul drink. Two people muddling amongst unsullied changes, and September bedrooms, quilts at night amidst the near freeze, the gales of calling pasts, and hauntings of future perils, the autumn winds hollering to be empty, the screeching silence of winter, the summer burn skirmishing the itinerant furthering sun, the bashful emperor in the hiding. The tars of divination, the celibacy of emancipation, her clutches risking naked against the algid downy skin of blanket nether region blessings, sheet messings, giggle rapture shrills, curl toed replenishings, rain drops on the slightly unfastened window of summer blame satisfaction. Green eyes to the windowed heavens, and just her tugging lips to the warm revelry, the idolatry of whatever peculiar gods bless the moment of inseparable memento, like the damsel nibbling the neck, like the darling of a just naked nape, a baby against the slant of evening half broken, her permutations devouring in the crimson of sun shaked lake baked, river laid dusty dusky, musty spiritualism. Just the handhold of the moment, as fleeting, her as not quite the impeccable lady, a carouser of deterioration, a ration shy of a committal fund, a lovely day but not the twilling of marital grand-ure. Just me, her, and washing rain, still cleaning the graces, still running the cold water of soiled servitude, with her writhing, her beckoning, her auburn tangled length rolling in her grape purple, tiger lily eye paint, her colored reflection in her orbital, her orbital anglings, messing her salmon lips, her puckered feasting plumed mouth. The savage creatures feeding, in the long trees, the wooded canopy, and the monsters of reality, the rocks of nicked foot, bleeding, healing rambling, wounded, the loves of time, the imperfection of her worship, feeling no pain, arching into warped calamity, righted like an orchestra, satin like a sunset tarn. Amidst Green and grey, and oblivion, in my beat furthered malaise, passion with quiet, a rainy day of heat, a rainy day of silence, a tiptoeing, and her lasted cooing, just as the tide rises, it crests, and falls, her little dream box in a song of resolute sugar dew, nectar for the belly of a angel. Just blankets and her rift lustrous, like in the womb of forty five thousand feet sky high substance free jumbo jet, like quiescent tulips on the bed of the great Gabriel. We were a mummification of the water, the verdant lords shrubbery, the wagging of my pixie caught and bundled, and me dreaming without eyelids, just a room, some simple pine, and a reservation for a lifetime of summer rain salvation. Just, me, her, and an alter to whatever private incandescence the lilac fragrant pugilists, see fit, in the musk killed damp piddling thoughts of rain, of refrain, in a day and a time when a speck of ash bonds with the thirst of a child devoid of time, my lifetime, just two ligules in a effortless semantic haven, just two shines resting on an alter of pine.