Woeful Whispers Poem by David Burton Richardson

The woeful whispers and sorrow sown
Of mournful moves too tired to say
When all we crave is that Womb like home
And the flowered scent and yellowed Hay
And time will pass like Silvery Sea
And leave the dark and damp trodden path
For in the end we breathe the Ochre scent
And the dancing leaves of the dusk like Tree
The deep dark chasms and morbid mounds
Are in our minds of Hell like wrath
And the desperate digging of deepest Black
Is at the end of that damp trodden path.