Treaty of Orifice

When will you give me the coroner's rose?
Sleeping with me in the overcast of the Capitol,
a casualty in blackberry filling
made bystander in law's ambition
reluctant to churn camouflage amphibious
on the desert cement decking floor,
but not opposing in a way to drive over a collector's runic sand
as in siding with an I Am society.
 
Two hundred lymphs spoke June of me.
I collapsed on the red gown of their consensus
that summer wore dilapidation first,
saying I should not sweat
 
the small stuff.
Then give me this, the coroner's rose.
Thread with pricks
my arm to this yard,
never anxiety give rise in me.
You were there
in the council vote
and said my name though many had forgotten.
Much thanks to you my ghoulish one.
So in truce, take my vocal folds, Representative,
 
and leave me below this damned cess... no, urban shade to me
as we know that I am not one to be called important,
but I'm sure the coroner would have me.