Mero's Valley (Song) Poem by Leon Moon

Bullet-thumps crunch echoes from unwanted focus,
Bulging from the crystallising stem of marigold panels,
Tracking the stared-at-wall to blank, blank, hiding silence
Between the audience understanding machines creating reality
And the airy poison of the true significance of eternity in solitude
Creating a boy meditating, breathing in the fable, the boredom of mirrors,
The question which is what God prayed for to get all of this;

Barely watchable presenters find themselves naked in the Sun, they were never born,
A new eternity arrives, and arrives, even though we think we survive
Knowing every ‘known' aspect of who we believe we are. —
He must believe the typical reference to cosmic infancy,
He retreats like cupid when he touches the neck of a cross,
The starlit banner burning to rubber for no other reason
Than to nurture warmth for a feeling of starved recognition rekindling loss;

He pricks like a rose to measure the worth of blueprints
Moulded to a cradle at birth, he despises the melodrama
Calling for his name, shrining the stop-sign which did none other,
Just like the repose, than strangle chance to a guarantee of fame
For they're all serious, but who's to blame
When your own mother can't even recognise it's all a game,
An orchestration as diabolic as the infiltration of a sun setting;

The royalty of a tilted neck is as alien as nothing
The under belly of the king is the saddest of anything
But at least they march in gold to be slain, just like the mane
As brittle as sweetness, the sword we reach for
To devour everything and finally settle the score
Of owing something, we're the castration of the future
And the gift of eve forever stalking the creator we create by wanting;

He begs for distraction because the ballad is an eyeline
Striking promiscuity to a skyline ravaging his own headline
To a constant dread of debt, just like the skeletons in Tibet
Who laugh when he reaches for another look at the book,
He knows he's a schmuck for asking about the killer of the prince
But the crystal balls inside his veins seem only to glitter to rince
The memory of a conquest told by the shaking of hands;

Bullet-thumps crunch echoes from unwanted focus,
Bulging from the crystallising stem of marigold panels,
Tracking the stared-at-wall to blank, blank, hiding silence
Between the audience understanding machines creating reality
And the airy poison of the true significance of eternity in solitude
Creating a boy meditating, breathing in the fable, the boredom of mirrors,
The question which is what God prayed for to get all of this;

He was shot for a dream, now he's a flood,
The peculiar singularity of what has been,
Masking the revival as a simple melody
Unfolding like he was never blind at all,
Always unready, he rises only to fall,
We ignore the scream and act like
We've never heard all of this before