Poem By Leon Moon
Eyes of frangible glass, skin weaved from shards.
As if concatenated to make his father proud,
He fashions his strut of memory, the dull cards
Of a suit that has creased from praying out loud.
His pale thighs and Sun-lined locks
Bind the conspiring old ladies to his owl-eyed heart,
Bustling whispers and toots of impetuous stokes arise! ridiculously fluffed flocks
Crowd the horizon- he has no room for them in his facade, the solitude of his art.
He has honed his throat to a scythe, a bloody carousel
Of inundations that rock to his contempt and melt
Into tiny statues of war for his design of love, the artless hell.
His hair, lineal protection, ancestors locked by Ouroboros belt,
(The cotton lined egg smudged in fingerprints) was a reflection.
Often, he tries hatred, out of fame or curiosity, for a style or mature breath
But usually induces wings and comments on his imprisonment, his sacred genuflection,
Succumbing to what he does not to believe, his prey, his vanity, his hell, his death.
But often, he thinks of his father, and never forgets...