Home: Poetry: Ivy McKnight: Shorties
These men,
Fallen beasts,
Arrogant and,
Biting their tongues,
Stuffed in straw,
And with a Rolex,
At they’re feet,

Carry your sorrows,
On a china plate,
And eat them
For dinner,
On Sunday.

Be back in a minute,
But never return,
Like an ongoing wind,
On the edge of time
Right on the horizon.

Shadow of time,
Spread like a tree,
In a bare winter breeze,
And changing,
And never the same.

Uncle cheever,
Ate his hat,
Milked his cow,
And forgot,
The rain,
Was on the wind,
Forgot about time,
The days went by,
And he slept.


All copyrights are acknowledged and those remain the property of the owners. Also these pages contain my opinions (unless otherwise specified), and thus, does not reflect the beliefs of others. The Garden of the Black Rose and its related pages are copyrighted (c)1998 by Ivy McKnight