A Song Poem by Leon Moon

All ink has acquird the same voice,
The throat is merely a guild of mirrors
As subtle and as viscious as mirrors
That behold the destiny of eternal rejoice.

My senses have been sewn to memory
And the hearth of the open soul,
My senses beesech to the closed soul
That still writes for rejoice's eternity.

When we see ourselves in all life
And test the nimbleness of evil
And the clay backbone of good,
We behold the salience of death.

As all man ordained under these laws
Must retract his plea's on verse
And laugh with the Universe
The principle of all laws…