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Lewis Dalton , 'The Devil's House' |
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The Devil's House
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 cannibalistic notions of
Winter's leaves in a Spring time garden.
Lewis Dalton
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