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Sep 2016
A skeleton key
opening a golden door
to a room filled with lead.
Smiles on hosts
with rotting teeth,
tongues of poison.
Garments of silk,
moth ridden,
falling apart.
A garden of roses
weeds slowly choking;
perfume of decay.
I walk
this crumbling earth
and will sleep
with no lies.
niamh
Written by
niamh  Ireland
(Ireland)   
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