At Present Poem by Leon Moon

At Present, I am an awful Poet —
Ink dries in the basking of each season,
Imagination scours within it's debt
Of self-made necessity and reason
Which coils around Nature's vibrating tusks
Stationed as it winds in thoughts to slither,
Tightening in it's coolness of the wither
And blossoming in those scenes of influx;
I alight senses in fits of silence
And burn commonalities to ember,
Smouldering's birth unto pages of air
— Contemplations waste in their own immense,
Where mind is the mist of thoughts and action,
Where I concatenate all life for man.