IT

The pulp mills on profane will burn night and day
Voices churn in a broken urn and waste the world away,
Impressive clothes a case of close your eyes to see
Such empty pomp where animals romp
Presumptuous guise humanity,
The chemical rage disguised as sage wages maniacal word and page
Of book a hidden hook line to crook misled and sinkers
With chocking block and souls in hock who tells the time
Behead you thinkers,
Praise hollow masks disguise the tasks with shallow flasks
To drink until due, reveling without a clue
Dig the hole and fall into.



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 579 times
Written on 2013-01-22 at 11:52

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