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Slashed as paint ripping wild the canvas
of its confines you woke the room,
your music a stringed surge reverberating
the grey.
Around the round words your lips move
as delicate as geraniums drift,
as electric panthers wag
the tangle of minted night.
owning us more than angels
and the very lyric breath
of each plucked, pink note
is a danced destiny.
More at https://www.jmiddletonpoems.com/.
