6 November 2009

The Devil's Halo

Quaint, as crimson tipped syringes
foxtrot petal tiled clouds;
meek droplets of haze, weary
of alarming the hinge's mound.

Spittle, caked in soft old lace,

blessing a sienna canvas;
couplets of beads caressing the arch
of unblemished Innocent's face.

Wallow; sloshing gently through

motions of slurred cadences;
rolling gold photos into moist,
anecdotes tailored around you.

Three cardboard kisses stitched
through canabalistic notions of
Winter's leaves in a Spring time garden.

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