Poetry generator

There Is No Lance

The crown blushing from my eye.
Pockets of aluminum converted into bolt of gem.

I was without doubt the god tiger
there in the hushed night.
When it looked me with its ancient forest eyes
it had neither heart nor toe
but glass salts on its sides.
It stands like a vein inside the trouser.
Brings all the conquers acrobats.
A banner focuses its dream of a beginning, its old ending, the old ending of the cathedral order -
its charitable granules.

I could rustle stick, imperfect chalk, and trash barge
from lands and rituals
with a red faucet
with deaths in my eyeballs.
The banal jaguar rustles in the middle of the infinite graves.
Not the sunburst orange moment
when the fortnight promises the wreaths.

What wide trysts -

The region is filled with it,
laws for the root and the exiled copper.