Democracy’s Room Womb Tomb

Dost dawn to dusk dust bequeaths the wails
Upon hail’s hell of sunshine serrated blinds
Cut deep, bye skeletal bone sigh, of the cross
Quivering dye river baptismal one stain bears

What climbeth thee chimes, bee chain link fences
Mid elocution charges, repulsing ~ pulsing isolation
One gravitates but, from prone to buttress position
Tap dancing thy skeletal fingers screens, off white ~

Screams, oh stream dye nails of tears festering, still cold
And old, being cracked brittle, amidst bitter mince meat
That bellwether tune that one musk complicit comply
Pied Piper please go away, thee wilt knot fallow follow.

Oh Tomb, be dye Democracy arboretum mind frame
Sow lines fertile furrow, mid starry poet plow images
For no One Man can taketh away the Mind that God
Instilled in Birth~Writes, even in a Womb Room Tomb.

2)
And that is the End, of me bard,
butt I hope naught,
for thy have to hit the buttress ~
quarter moon before I go,
writing on again, jest again
mid summer knight mare womb,
Sherwood room forest tomb,
head stoned in Poet Trees.

Love the Pun in Poetry.

HeArtMosphere Poet