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in the city of strangers I was born and horses knew it as the voice of the sad path
roads between my fingers befuddled the weeds
of the cross translating the pain
he had me ? the make-up artist of the devil,
he had black spots on white his skin he had wings of the Swan Lake
but he was ridden by the thunder of his conscience
that calls along the swallows despair red reins
of poverty that are seen and avoided as people in the Dew
eat even better together than to ask advice about the bread that was hooked to the moon
harsh duvets and puffed into the air through his veins
from meat and withered trees
that sparkle along the paths of storms
that were cuddling on a bed of roses

the number of the bygone era in the history
utter failure as an old bread from a shoplifter
that love had as herbs antlers
and the benefits were buffed around the choir
appropriate dress
the dangling of the seas fog
bring back the fire in the shadow of the skin
or maybe we are overwhelmed by the thunder in the light
of hell under the dunes of lions
princes and the size is now full
belittled the flight of the past must
now do penance I was so wrong about the way your innocence
tormented haze each child has his worldly consideration

Hello - I think that you the original 'quaileyedsnowfish'

I don't know if you visit here but I'm curious about your style of poetry - it's very abstract. Is it some variance of flarf poetry???