Come Sky.

Sky, come and make me.
Come true, the sea has anger in his waves.
I have heavy boots but Johnnie laughs like a horse.

His shelter is hidden in Serbia, I don't know why.

The sea indulges this outpour.
All the bets are on Mary,
on blue-eyed Mary.

Straight around, the corners are flooded and I walk still.
I see St. Agnes rubbing a diamond, hoping it turns into a rose.
I begin thinking about Mary.
Where is she today, and what makes her a rose?

Come to see Oswald falling into her bloom, falling into perverse hands
(through the sea and I'm not judging.)

Maybe I have envy, if I have fallen into this puzzle.

To this, your hands are not in the right position.

Your bets make me sad.

She's beautiful and full of grace.

White, well-rounded and well-to-do.

She starts where the white flowers blossom, ends with the wind.

What garnishes her? What is behind all this?

She has said before that she believes in love:

"To your actions I've harden myself, today I turn against the love I feel."

Her tears are white in autumn.

Perfume of Autumn.

And Cinammon Leaves.

Sky, give me answers.

If she's sinless, then what are the odds?

What do you think?

I think she's happier down at the core of the Earth.

Inside a cave of coral reefs, diamonds and icey water.

She's fool. She can indulge her self, with whatever the sea gives her.

Come see the waves hit the sand.

The sand is cold.

Do you miss me?

Like Egyptian carpets that once graced floors

but never seized the skies above all legions.