|Home: Poetry: Ivy McKnight: Lost|
In a cold and rotten place,
And fallen to the morons,
On an assembly line,
Built by the hands of sanity,
And toppled to the wisdom,
Of the moon-god.
In detachment and wretchedness,
He is grinning like a worldly light,
And on a field of end-products,
He watches as they liquefy,
And gleam like plastic jewels,
In the faultless bounds of reality.