The Ivy Climbs Abysmal Pt IV
The ivy climbs abysmal,
On the church which stood in cheer,
The ivy grips,
And slyly slips,
A slow eclipse,
That now outstrips,
The grace of yesteryear.
The ivy climbs triumphant,
On the arches curving high,
The crumbling stone,
All overgrown,
In ivy sewn,
And deathward thrown,
A lurid lullaby.
The chorus of the faithful,
And the leading of the priest,
So ghostly still,
In winter chill,
The vines that kill,
A bitter pill,
With worship long deceased.
The ivy wends acerbic,
In demonic disarray,
The ghastly pall,
Upon the wall,
Proceeding tall,
A darksome shawl,
That none might stop or stay.
The prayers that rose like incense,
And the sweetness of the hymn,
All blown away,
In time’s affray,
The ivy’s way,
Will not delay,
And marches awful grim.
The dank proliferation,
Brings a sad, affecting sight,
The Sunday hum,
Benighted, numb,
Inept and dumb,
The site so glum,
And speechless now in fright.
The ivy climbs abysmal,
And the sky is stricken grey,
The sullen crows,
Sing sordid shows,
So dark they pose,
As ivy grows,
As daylight slips away.
adamdaniel 