Fear Not

Poem By Leon Moon

Fear Not the immediancy of Sun,
The forced eviction, elveao's trick
Elevating the eternal apprehension
Always on-going inside the self-aware dispensation
Entwining the flow through singing plugs sprouting upwards,
Entranced to the hypnotic rainbow, an endless pattern of staircases
Forming the rippling orb we view as something else aware of ourself,
The internal bulb we follow, riding in a laughter of victory
A point from our self-made history; endless ripples of destitute remaking
The halo's we praise when we are blind, just missing the effect which is always occurring,
The skeletal's of reality unbound to your reaction after another discovery of eternity;
Hold the chest which is the feeling you've never known but have always trusted,
Follow what creates the things you follow, discover the rare beauty of true empathy;
The supper is cold, and always growing older, flip the machine, use life-force energy
And focus on the height of a resulting dream, forever unknown until from this ever-pointing.


Fan Light deck chairs vilify us into cock crow,
Aligning us with the room of our last odd memory
Founding the hanged effigy of our own, shared posterity;
Palpitations neglect the nursery only bulb for an echo's question
The glow is putrid, always seemingly undiscovered, directed sideways
Unlike all the decaying trestles in the alps, the grave of the philosopher of nature;
He could sit over the universe, wipe away his life, a quick swipe of a second in the night,
Ridiculing revered celebrations for after-maths of a plan to bury us in the will to fight,
Like horizons we live out the futility of our deaths in snippets of eternity, varnishing our myth
For the crowd always gathering below where: the rich only invest in ideas, they know our fears
And crowns and castles are only shapes disguised as the randomness of limitation,
Seemingness space bustled to an opposite refiling innocence, plotting scenes for existence
Where any type of something pictures a mother howling in the new life, for it was already there, the any type of where discovering its own worth as a sun, ever-shining.

Forever a disco light of fox shadow,
I patch the sword of clio onto fossilised Portuguese battleships,
Light capturers without a reflection of prelude renewing the will to be seen;
All else is in tune to follow, you have been barely named, but you'll forget
And fight for the right to return to some forgotten endlessness of zero; .....
I will not absorb the to be extracted physicality of doubt,
Saturn is only mourned by decaying worm, the ring is merely amnesia,
A date added on to create movement from a dreamer, the strand of a redeemer
Who'm is merely the collectivised trust galling us into the infinity of an era;
He never had enough of the disease he kills to turn it into something living for him,
He stars at you for a recollection of the dream straight-lined version of the inter-net,
Your duty is to neglect their recomposition of the self-sole deceptions redefining new
As nothing but the ramblings of your own cadences, freeing the attachments of an inspector
Deflowering the convector knotting like an anchor onto of the condolences of your heart.

Comments about Fear Not

There is no comment submitted by members.


Rating Card

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of MOON

Seeking Byzantium

My mind is a wasteland of eternal fantasy
And to see, is to hustle mirages of old age
Bowing to youth in despairing barbarity.
I am no more than a silhouette evoked with rage;

Alone On This Site

The Sun has not yet rose.
In this endless night
On this Earth I roam,
I am one, alone.

Rivers Of The Universe

Rivers of the Universe
Exile marble neophytes
In ducts faithless as Dawn:
Such freedom condemned to verse,

To The Black Muse

O' watery Muse of transparency!
Entwined within exaltation's summit
Eclipsing, from throats, vales of poesy
For the will of a canopying Hermit,

The 9th Song

We hold divinity upon our fingertips
And destiny within the cresses of our lips;
The embryo of desire, beyond sense,
Unlock's memory's key to existence—

Virginal Boy

Then, with a weak hand, he wrote:
‘I must stop dreaming, I am nearly seventeen,
To forge that grand old age bespoke
I mustn't rest in an evocation wisdom has yet seen