Poetry generator

What Is True Of The Grape Is True Of Nothing

Towards those acrobats of yours that wait for me.
If I could rustle the wasteland and the field.
An odor has awakened in the ripple,
a mixture of complaint and body, a weaving
root that brings animosity.
A shady calculation punctures
even the decisive
minor thicket in metaphor
to which the metaphor
will not be rejoiced.

Pure legume enchants the pullulations and droplets and flowers.
Towards those apples of yours that wait for me.
A chorus of iguanas at early light of day un expanded un abolished
comes to a halt before a precision.

The tremulous elephant pulses outside the scrupulous lampreys.
And a negligent shades of silvery's sky will enchant you.

We open the halves of a secrets and the
flying of roosters re-covers into the decisive sea.
Of your opaque red fountain when you hold
out your toe.
A loaf of bread baked with phosphorus felicity and salt.
And splendors and saxophones.

From her breath and her brow form
warmths of your body of the earth.
This rabid ripple and circumscribing smooth stone
deludes me
with it's blazing promises like eye and fingernails
and brimstone fused quartz architectures like heart and schools.
Disguise me and let my substance develop.