blue velvet dress

I must confess

I’m the devil 

in a blue velvet dress

writing pagan poetry 

detailed impeccably

unnerved by inconsistency

idle hands, indian giving

its worth admitting 

when my axis shifts

I go tumbling down

a technicolor rabbit hole 

misconceptions counted

by an invisible metronome

landing in a menagerie

of careless flattery

where rejection is both 

a bottle marked poison 

and the filigree silhouette 

of a skeleton key

a. duncan, 2018



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"She would fill endless notebooks with stories about the characters in her life, their impressions, words, friends, lovers, inspirations, fantasies. She spent her days dreaming up worlds where they fit together in visions; the if only, the never again, the someday. Those who knew her best would describe her as a creature with a clear and sometimes painful sense of herself; furious with ideas and convictions, to a point that she frightened love away with discernment and a relentless strength of character."

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