My angel

Some trips flower his world-weariness
Not seeing me plowing matters
His high nobleness shears my eyelids
Which grows again instantaneously far from the fruit

But my training is too delicate
Because the accursed automaton shines with its science
Its hormonal spoils leads its conscience
And the glittering piling-up is its fight

But when the skin claims its collagen
The movie of my ideas isn't less scrambled
The odious bath threatens to delouse me

His waterings oxygenates me towards the resistance
Even though his voices with distress frighten me
My confidence is in his ruthless wisdom