Poetry generator

The Study Called The Curves


We get the sense
they must lots to wet
to each other
or perhaps nothing but vagabonds.
Perhaps they are not mutated.
And so that its shrapnels will freeze your curves.
So the serendipidous happiness lives on in a lemon,
the starry house of the snow,
the winged praise that is sweet-smelling and velvety.
Evils of a inevitable raft
exciting around the area with a cheerless train,
clear as an arrogant pheasant.

A chorus of cats at midnight un understood un lunged
comes to a halt before a leaf. The railroad track pulsing from my hand.

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