For you, Martian.

She's got sword in case
Though this is not her lord incase,
The one who can't afford to face
Her image is restored to grace.

Disappeared.
No trace.
Musky tears.
Suitcase.

The down turn brave
Little burncub bearcareless turnip snare
Rampages pitch color pages...
Down and out but not in Vegas.
Disembarks and disengages.
No loft.

Sweet pink canary cages plummet pop dewskin fortitude
For the sniffing black noses that snort and allude
To dangling trinkets that mimic the dirt cough go drink its.
It's for you.

Blue battered naval town slip kisses delivered by duck
Muscles and bottlenosed grifters arrive in time to catch the late show.
It's a beehive barrel race.
A shehive stare and chase, wasted feature who tried and failed to reach her.
Embossed beneath a box in the closet that's lost.
The kind that you find when you mind your own mysteries.
Shiv sister to the quickness before it blisters into the newmorning milk blanket.
Your ilk is funny to the turnstyle touch bunny who's bouquet set a course for bloom without decay.
Get you broom and sweep the echoes of yesternights fallen freckles... away...