Poem By Leon Moon
A state which is masked by a costume
And a mind impressed by shadows,
Though the weeping heat of mothers eyes
Is known to it, all is masked by a man who speaks less
And grumbles verses to you in a dry smile
For he spares rain from the cloud above.
I may be one, but to who's reason is unknown
As creation is known before the weight of a name
And the shape to guide it's thought and passage,
The specs of soil are flesh in the hands of a flower
And it's course is but you in eyes of darkness
For the truth is as flexible as a lie,
That outlasts and proves so.
And I pinch my skin, my skin is I, my skin is a lie
And truth in it's sensations - who knows, to dream?
(It exists, it exists, it exists)though to who are none
For a costume is as alive as a thought, living before it's known,
Gregarious in love, men fall under it's magic
And see they're magicians themselves - never believing so
And a chameleon, deceivers and angels, live in themselves as all.