The Olive Press Poem by Mark Heathcote

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.