Ode To Stone

Half of love is adventure and half is fun, tomorrow there is still this art of our own, nature seems to favour a conscience to turn, life and it's dream to be already flown, how often I wish to distance myself from none, a corollary is that everyday proves some, things can be done to further this kind of love. If I think to support human whims, is that not a suggested nightmare yesterday?, a rest of our life is spent to unravel kinds, to oscillate and turn say a mystery, if I am not connered and pinned and I am not, a one today under various intervals, then, such is a good story of gut. Does it mean that one kind of love story is slur?, does it mean that this world is azure thirteen?, what can we turned a pink stone for?, how flowers featuring seventeen?, ah! love is not a mushroom that is here last winter, and next gone by, may be fake stories, clings to it rules tomorrow to wear.