Mother Is Dearest

My thoughts grow more like the wind it is difficult, it is from my mothers damage, like the swordtail and the sparrow. Fencing or yellow of blinking which is bitter the north sour star. The tight corrosiveness of her mind no wind, no love, All have died slowly and indirect are the rumors. And I strain of the sour lemons, mother of months. Could but I have, have but I could, never say would, should or could. How could life be puckered and which face to the body, of day. Like the fig of early summer, wee, once green, never purple gone. While being only sharp, me of whom it droops to just talk of the wrinkle, Guenavere was moral. It is thin, the unripened center is now old and it never like you smiled.