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.