A Mexican Standoff Poem by Leon Moon

It is the Introduction of May, focusing a small osium ball. It insists to rot everything. Dry eyes, remorseless, the convict plagarising vast apprehensions of Summer passes merely as a facade in the reef of solitude. The back of my skull aches, eternally, I will never respect submission. Every prophecy is taught but never purified through fear; forgetting death is the bounty of envious pride invested in the Sun, the mercy of a distinct love we are forced to chase, so in the heat of a dying month we become masters at pretending we instigate surprise as an ever-present pattern.

Watching myself as her, I distinguish final glimpses like the anatomy of boredom preluding a typical bliss to abuse blinding the inherent debt of the worker, whom we all know respects through the duplication of his soul the single matter of truth, his physical and easily forgettable form dripping in a sweat he's too scared to understand, unknowingly folding himself under the flood. Still, the ancient is all exempt from any possible nourishing tenderness, lieu of lapsing undereach flap the cliche of reunification establishes a chime in the outskirts of teal prisms channeling our voice to remind us of the cataleptic boredom forever unreaching - just as the will settles to take on life, granting torture for a revelation we neglect as the long-sought for eptiomy we're too lazy to embrace, defining the worth of horizons dripping supposedly from our chin.We never know who the test of honesty is towards, either that or I create your future, - as long as we're alone, forced without ourself to be lying, either dying for eachother as the last souls in the universe, ending the destiny of the beginning in ourself, or breeding continuance as an accomplishment sucking out any basic premise of remorseful happiness;
spiteful innocence justifies itself as a dream; all life as a child is sacrificed; we never belonged here anyway.

Resurfacing from the amnesia of nuance, no larger than a pin-point drop, you realise, shaking off sideways so much that upon reflection you realise you must've formed a circle, thought can never come; that really, your fear of death is simply the fact you can never tell mother, you can never assure yourself you're everything that is. Undoubtedly, you'll ask why you were never told at birth from here. Inevitably, the sickly reason of predictability, lotus-eyed and marigold buffalos disguising nettles in ploughs ravaging moats and microcosmic equators nestled in the disease of spring, insues laughter, a final acceptance of your own stupidity, your own worth, for it's obvious — this is the point from which every moment resides.

It is only what is typical, I was the last one to conceive of it.
The revolt against myself is for the conflagration of silence;
The masturbation of chains - I ramble like rosewood, varnishing the aeshtetics of Dawn.
I am forced to gauge sorrow to a banquet in wake of your presence, creating an arbiter of final breaths. What is preferable for your love, blindness as ecstatic death or an eternity in the orphanage? Does it annoy you knowing every end to the crescend is a lie?