His March Poem by Leon Moon

But still, never to tether,
Alone as memories' ether,
As ageless as history
And beyond the will to see -
Forth brought by paths untrodden,
Always fresh, never rotten,
Infant spirals know the cut
Without ever seeing black -
An after thought, too sudden,
Spat without ever spoken
Halves an imminence to where
The last Sun dwindles as air -
Focus to rot, gain a lack,
Two monkeys love out luck
To find matter in a three
Moulding thought eternally.

And so, it was told, and told.