Bow Poem by Leon Moon

Ripe and fresh with unique music
And winds doubtless of regression,
Life all must bare the orient!
Virgin Moons pitch night with blood thick;
Those fanfares swarm on aggression
And split scape's with gossamer scent;
A jaw clasps harvests liberty
Of that youth knows, yet dare not see..
Why am I still before the sea?

Heir's ebb and bow to idle chaste
Of dream's now dreamt in vision past! …
Black Whirlpools stricken with Dawn's sight
Await to pounce Dusk's transient light! …
Horizons turn to an hourglass
Split by the cultivated mass
Of a consecrated nevus,
Abnegated by idleness;
Shores fringed breath harbours sands of sweet
Nature, whole and orphaned in sweat! …