trump CARD - “You’re Fired.”

Dye thy soul, amongst blood, ink stained “ASP” words of power.

Bleed thy milking self-worth, clasp coagulate, to grasp meaning.

From the mire that swills the depth drains that dew gasp grains,  

Amidst reins, writing die hearth mirth that dearth chambers death.

Reincarnate after birth, after tears Dead Poets Society cries out.

Poet nail thy verse’s plow, plead thee furrows of terse relativity.

Wrought iron, WILL thy heartbeat’s hallow, adrift woven weave.

Thy Testament Willpower, wrought tempered in shard bard reflections

Dye consummate power dew rails the rake skeletal fingers sharp

Scraping the sacrament parchment fabric to score, thy thorn terse.

Oh whip, whip bare, thy fabric being stretched- alone taunt tattered.

Rant rutted thy scattered remains, adrift Banshee shrill frigid refrains.  

Echo desolation devastation, in hollow eye socket skeletal - framed.

Bleach, oh bleach thy heart, where heartbeats cease, to be hurt alone.

Crease in to find empty holes of desert dessert tricks in lifeline treat,

Ticks that infest tick tocks leeching away, the hourglass fine line vine.

Alas living suicide, never gives up alone that last threat of hope does exist.

That one preys knees deep, wounded, scarred amid DeTermination grit.

Where aberration abrasion pleads naked, in Liars of Miracle absolution.

Do dye poet, thy path wrought in fear, torn asunder hurt, lay wasted

Stained by others, one must reach the Holy Grail baptismal poet blessing.

To Be Thy Poet Tree, Naught To Be dead branches, but blossoming living fruition.

Sole purpose one becomes a poet, having been played a

trump Card - “You’re Fired.”