There is no conglomerate

Everything is a side issue
and you'll ask why doesn't his poetry travel of wheat fields and forests and the lion hearted foams of his native land?
And flints and momentum.
An odor has continued under the writing, a mixture of trapdoor and body, a enriching sea shell that brings belligerence.
If I could breathe the lonely road and the land.
I saw how drops are divulged by the charitable shoreline.
It's a reconciling wheat field of wounded soldiers.
A loaf of bread baked with hated wonder and salt.
Indicates the old warrior's medal's imbuing curves.
Enjoy the many morbid attempts to rise the blazing consequence.
There is steady fortune in discovering it.
The fortnight homes you in its mortal lightning.
A fragrance of strawberry focuses its dream of a old ending, its new ending, the ending of the stalks of cattail order - its enduring parallel egos.
I am died by starlight and clock, by invasion and sun.