Ivy's poetry

Churning like chocolate,
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.

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 .