Void Of Magnificence (2/4-1/2) Poem by Leon Moon

Equated to a halo of burning ice,
Navigating wind to find life without stretch marks,
A wednesday morning patheticism, the will for vice
Interweenes barely approachable harps of flesh
Into a promise with the Sun, eternalising blind mice
Embodying artificial concepts breathing out mechanisms.

Engineered laziness creates each season,
Lavish patience sinks to a pointless death,
The only justified retirement is our endless youth
And the sickly rotation of mirrors, here we are the only one
To digest the first and last of man's thought, the grand final breath
Rising to a martyr of self-tragedy ever burning the Sun.

I apologise to the howl hung over,
Evoking the spirit, a beggar thief, a tribe
Of effervescent orbs, each a new Dawn, lined to a never
Mingling the barrier of our heart, an erosion of bronze we baptize
And praise in a relief of grunts stranding our lost endeavour
To a swoon of imminence creaking hours impartial from our cries.

The purple inferno is just a hut
Where milky caps finally reverie dead ends,
The sunspoken trust, only broken by an alchemist
Who with prismatic mortar hardened only uncertainties
Causing broadside, ancestral sickness of despair, the missed
Tragedy we are, stalking our sittings, never quite touching the skies.

x x x

These promenades are matchstick emblems,
Coughing out numeracy for souls, laughing on the clothes-line
Back-dropping us in the centre stitching us up to a spinning ball of pride,
Gaining the tears of a flower from the pillars founding a career of lost friends,
Counting backwards, reversing innocence, lining bodies beside the rails
Of a forced claim, protecting the dissolution of the last known promenade.

Everything Meta is reversed or thrown out,
Twice over, inside out, I add a new form to the extension
And embrace new languages from choirs in the clouds;
Drooping windshields harden before they're green with tension,
Too skilled to be touched between the space gapping the doors
Of dissolution, the sickening irony manifesting our illusion.

Full up on the arch reaper's revival,
Sketchbook lungs smudged by their own survival,
Dwarf elephants reach their trunks out in the night,
Just like the dissolving snails gnawing heat spots
Forging grievances in hope to find the spot,
Spraying out purple window shards in delight.

The delaptable truffle inspector
Can only tolerate truth once we're together,
Wasting in some form of paradoxical solution
Always at least separate from the initial Sun
Anticipating the burn of what it is to become
In a universe always awaiting resolution.

x x x