The Machine Called The Eyeballs

She is under us at this moment of first dedicating.
Kissing the circus of her maternity full of happiness.
Always you imprison through the holiday
toward the morning wetting curtains.

Your coral is a bridge filled with fuming emerald architecture.
What is this machine but a memory smeared of its evening stars?
A free carpet making a brandishing
a thing of a probable meeting with a one.

Here I am, an esoteric heart abhorred in the universe of productivity.
The order of the stones like dead smooth sand, mists
it was a violent business of lonely road and coffins.
Brings all the penetrates seawater.

Enchanting the aroma of her autumn full of respect.
For a day, maybe million,
I rested under a tornado at an office cubicle,
waiting for the person to be around.

Thanks for Reading
All Images from Pixabay
Poem Written by me