A Frigid Death Poem by Leon Moon

The yellow rock lilts as a lily
In petals of foam gasping on the lake,
Nymphs with pixelated braids continually
Seduce winds to sepulchre's refining fate;
Hands shiver as naked ice before light,
Blurring the meander rimming our sight.

Harpoons rust like hearts condemned to absence
For we wait as we're in, bred to converge
Strings plucking preordained anguish and obedience —
Waves, melodies, swirl to violet and surge
Across Mesopotamia's bleak hand
Grooved by mounds and stumps, externalising eternity's land.

The feline pounce of nature's ancient stance
Beholds plastic jewels and golden flowers,
Brooding by the season, chiselling the glance
Of an archer's torment whispered to carnal towers;
The Clock is without age or reason,
Skinning hands to masks of season.

As the rocks dissolve into salt and ice,
Poet's write and dance to the child's Zephyr
Where brine in waves, souls the size of lice,
Slither to the hearth of man's blazing fire
In faith to partake in some remedy
Conceived, and ignored, by our memory.

In the alleyway of one's destiny
Where brands blink and darken in liberty,
Flows the great stream of the soul's eternity
Where we ask: "What suppose to do, or may be? "
And those urges which create the concept of discovery
Light thoughts to blackness with vessels of self-containing energy.

In plight of gravities presence,
Doleful extremities and proposals
Seem to exist as shells in fancies sense,
Where man is reduced to nothing but roles;
In the petals of foam gasping on the lake
The yellow rock lilted as a lily…