RIP Grave Stone

Curse it, room - be a tomb,

When closet opens its lisp tongue,

Lashing dye flame, flails dye reigns hell.

Wherein friar fraught, be death’s draft,

Drought wrought, finger cut, dye daggers

Dew rail banshee wails, echo cast refrains.

Hollow door of dye crypt cries out depth’s cold

Death chills, clinging heavy, thy Poet’s Heart.

Naught To Be - choke holds an empty casket.

What was, now dust covered grave stoned Walls.

Stencil, die shrill taunt, chill quiver rill - Not To Be

Was never meant - To Be - but shadow casted -

Poet marker of RIP Grave Stone