A Short Hourglass Anatomy Of Instinct Poem by Leon Moon

Fractal machines, pisces nets unlike their mirrored
Spine hardened to a form of use, the burden creating uselessness,
Though by distinction to an idea of sound absolutely divine,
Mirrored by way of a droplet, untouched by touching clay,
Spew out their serpents strangling each other, the unseen unity,
A platform for eternity, another home for an ego's reality,
Here caught as triangles that spiral down forever,
Capturing the space of music our thought recognises
By fornicating with itself as premature silence, an undisturbed beauty,
Here long forgotten but if told is now the flesh of a lotus, a man with curly hair
Counting down his death, the water always being carried, orange and dilute,
In some shape, these points fed off by robotic machines, hacking our psyche,
Feeding off, except by recognition, the potential pierced in our DNA,
They couldn't exist otherwise; - here, alone with what most of humanity
Consider to be their God's first action, santa's little helpers turn their semen
Into children awaiting adoration or destruction, both the same, both unheard
And seen as words which would free humanity within an instant, enslaving
Freedom to the laughter it will use as a pattern founding the platform of memory; -
What is more than a vessel, if not known? .. I speak, so I do and never do; -
The eye drops first upon the heart, and genitals squirm to a thought
That recognises itself without itself, then it does but it is neither any
Of what it was, or what the thought believed it was, which can only be
Nothing but itself, known through itself which is nothing, nothing but the will
To know which isn't itself but if it claims so, experiences everything but itself
Through itself of which it is not, and never can be, and so always will be; -
These spider-like beings, servants to our matrix, though mere droplets
For our own state, for we are too in a matrix, a dream inside a dream;
Though I propose another dream, that upon awakening, and the one aware of this,
And so one, always twins, chasing their parents whom exist insoluble,
Insoluble as thought; carry on working around my room, inside, looking up,
A purple tunnel stretches, painting the void with mosaic flowing into one another,
Disappearing back to the all-vined, purple tunnel which creates the instinctual
Will for action which would create my character within this simulation,
I am trapped, only able to watch as the vines breathe in and out,
What is the substance of this hallucination, the perfected delicacy
Of fantasy waiting our discovery through every breath we take?