Ivybluesummers

Crowd gazes oceans, rowdy
little dandelion mourning over milks,
spilled, unfathomably
And fiction it’s the only filth,
Dusting off truth when all gets sweet

And ivy looks good by its name
for poison mingles its hue
With roses and thorns it’s all the same,
much more disguising blue;
And summer it’s too soon, or was it
just winter that passed by April?

But arrogance plays Mary that
cries like the wind does, calling
and running just to do it again
It only plays with a word, this feeling;
It’s that little stranger on the mirror, who
wallows and makes it beautiful.