Indigo Prose
	By Ian Turner <jjackson@wpine.com>

Only in a cold, dead world
	do men speak in words of concrete.
A world so old that Death is dead,
	and feelings proscribed.
This world is the perfect Utopia some seek,
	with no pain or sadness,
	     nor passion nor joy.
God and Satan sleep together,
	in matching boxes.
Here poetry is another word for nothing.
This world is coming too swiftly for me,
       who do they think they are?
They've mechanized the magic out of my dreams,
	and all of my dragons lie slain.