A Mist In The Wood Poem by Leon Moon

The opal eyes of the mist
Roll unto the pale sylvan,
Children of the coral fist
Offer themselves to Pan;
Gracious and horrendous,
The mind is the scale gold
That holds our eye to send us
To the fiery birth of mould,
Latching the Magenta drape
Upon the horns of spines
Swirling in the wooded brine,
Souls detest their mossy cape.
Sweet actors chirp above clouds
Forgetting ballads of that female sense,
Dripping as hue to the mind's immense;
The sky's sap embodies Earthly shrouds.
An emerald Dawn peels the globe's veneer,
Gaping sut latches to beastly armour
And performs man's most sickly drama,
Frequently inherent - - seeded by fear.
The flugelhorn has seized it's prophecy;
Now the improvisations relish in eternity
Guided by Fibonacci's unheard strophe,
Pulping in my Pandiyan nails fervently...
My wings and lyre, beyond time's waste,
Rise like birds to Earth's Dawning birth;
My phosphorous eyes of musical taste
Ordain the small puddle of foam, dissolving as soil to Earth...
I sharpen my nails by genuflecting to the ground
And ignite my body to the flesh of sound...

Our opal eyes of the mist
Roll unto the pale sylvan,
Children of the coral fist
Offer themselves to Pan.