The Black Sun Poem by Leon Moon

And I write as the child who never existed
Whom I forged out of aging despair,
And with a destitute conviction outside of a boy;
Flesh blemished by warm, bomb-shell wrinkles
And dripping bowers drooping like soft clay from my eyes.

The foetus wrapped in original thoughts of death
Hums to all but that gentle beat in the charcoal sky,
The still virginities still play the led strings of that harp
Left by a mother which will be seeked for youth's eternity;
The father will be unknown until death.

He is neither me, or my Son
But I have his dull wisdom
Of done things left undone;
At the shore he repents deceptions of crimson
That turn the rivers into ink, the palm, the Sun.

Multitudes of forgotten thought gives the waves of the Sea a shroud
And I bask in recitals, drowning in the hidden memories of childhood;
Multitudes of sombre pastels, rejecting the ‘normality' of a passing cloud
And answers given are the gospel of strangers, untaught in the dripping blood;
Multitudes and reflections lie still and the stubborn seeker screams aloud.

Decay is impulsive within its planned reason,
Delicacy is no longer soft, clay is hardened unto the air
And nails fall as they preserve the sly baptism of the Sun;
Those blinded by their own descent bow to the flare,
Living within the prophecy, abandoned by the shaded Son!

A Golden chest, all light shun; —
Here we rise, here we rise as the Black Sun!
But only will I wake and shine when the visions
Of all people, of all life, have been enamoured;
Past dreary storms and cloudy white, only through the void of eyes
Will I find the reason why this Black Sun shines.