My Lady

Tis not you, My Lady, but the thorn, butt in me that is this poet phantom pith that needs to burrow seed’s erection. Tis not sorrows that flood amidst tit tap drip tear drops, create those pitfalls, one drowns within deep dwellings feelings that lays virgin naked, being raked over and time again, inside torn soles, heels wear worn holey. Two feet left right to left wander barefoot threadbare trail upon Once Upon A Lifetime feat, I was the Flower of Youth, now the pitted Prune. But alas, I have wilt molded, baring Autumn’s last falling leaf to blanket nude’s cold in a poet’s chill stare. To recompose, the morrow that will only bring on, only more than misery, composted onto Poetry dost dew blossom, the Larks of the Meadowlands, Bards of the Butterflies. Songbirds of thy Troubadours. This a meadow of incredulous bereavement, sod over woes, in what is being left out, being planted in verse soiled, then becomes this Magical Medicinal Meditative Meadow; thorns perfect roses, prickly pears rocks blossoms back and forth to bear the poet cradle germination. Tis My Lady, my unanimity anomality analogy anthology anonymous alliteration within thy UniQue HeArtMosphere Universal UniVerse Garden of Understanding, henceforth forthwith share dynamic dimensions. God Loves Thy Poet and Dye Tree, whose colored leaf’s dew mist thy eyes alight rainbow trances, swaying words refresh rejuvenated sharing misty eyes prayers sparkling adrift wild floral arrangements that make poets - POETS.

My Lady

Tis not you,

My Lady,

but the thorn,

butt in me

that is this

poet phantom pith

that needs to

burrow seed’s erection.

Tis not sorrows

that flood

amidst tit tap drip tear drops,

create those pitfalls,

one drowns

within deep dwellings feelings

that lays virgin naked,

being raked over

and time again,

inside torn soles,

heels wear worn holey.

Two feet left

right to left

wander barefoot

threadbare trail upon

Once Upon A Lifetime feat,

I was the Flower of Youth,

now the pitted Prune.

But alas,

I have wilt molded,

baring Autumn’s

last falling leaf

to blanket nude’s cold

in a poet’s chill stare.

To recompose,

the morrow

that will only bring on,

only more than misery,

composted onto Poetry

dost dew blossom,

the Larks of the Meadowlands,

Bards of the Butterflies.

Songbirds of thy Troubadours.

This a meadow

of incredulous bereavement,

sod over woes,

in what is being

left out,

being planted

in verse soiled,

then becomes this

Magical Medicinal Meditative Meadow;

thorns perfect roses,

prickly pears

rocks blossoms

back and forth

to bear

the poet

cradle germination.

Tis My Lady,

my unanimity anomality

analogy anthology

anonymous alliteration within

thy UniQue HeArtMosphere

Universal UniVerse

Garden of Understanding,

henceforth forthwith

share dynamic dimensions,

God Loves

Thy Poet and Dye Tree,

whose colored leaf’s

dew mist thy eyes

alight rainbow trances,

swaying words

refresh rejuvenated

sharing misty eyes prayers

sparkling adrift

wild floral arrangements

that make poets –

POETS.