The Olive Press

Love is an olive branch Bent and broken in two By childish men who think They know just what to do. They govern our thoughts, Our every liberty as conscious beings, Their molestation has no boundaries. No limits. They pluck each promising-olive And squeeze it bone dry, Till no more tears can weep. Or-expunge the will to cry. And like malnourished cattle We are milked of our humanity Bundled into curds and whey of worthless money. We all then spend erratically... And like brainless-dotes We are given an X number of votes As to who decides? How we live and how we die. How a limited olive branch Should be bent or broken before It reaches through a glass ceiling, The iniquity of their sky.