The Ivy Climbs Abysmal
The ivy climbs abysmal,
And the viaduct is dry,
Speckled rain in swathes again—
The heavens feign to fill the drain,
But cannot though they try.
The iron pipe is stalwart,
With the studs from yesteryear,
The sacred frogs within the bogs,
They sit on logs through endless fogs,
And croak their business clear.
The everglades are soulless,
And no person ventures there,
The trees at night a lonely sight,
The owl in fright, a fractious wight,
With shrieks that fill the air.
The lichen spreads in aqua,
In a tapestry of green,
A sickly hold that spreads like mould,
The leaves so bold, by lust controlled,
The rocks as their cuisine.
The crickets voice their ruckus,
With their legs in wobbling mirth,
The afternoon a happy boon,
A sprightly tune to woo the moon,
And celebrate the earth.
The limestone pales in sadness,
Clammy moisture clogs its pores,
The iron swing is mouldering,
The chains they fling no longer bring,
Much joy to kids in scores.
The bricks are cracking open,
And the mortar is decayed,
The world is wan with death begun,
The pallid sun is void of fun,
And Gaia weeps dismayed.
The soul is shattered weary,
And the tiredness is real,
Like flotsam stuff the clouds rebuff,
Our hope so tough, but not enough,
To ope the seventh seal.
ADL
adamdaniel 