A Hollow Clock Poem by Leon Moon

A hollow clock groans.
The doubtful prophets bark.
A hull sniffs the rubble, still on the patchwork horizon.
The hour-glass stones.
Our opal reflections stark.
Their is a shift in the wind, the wise old women return from Zion.

The bell-ringing dewlaps graze.
Imperial confectionaries refuse nature.
They are nature, the shifting instinct, the common impulse!
We are only understanding.
We grandly smother ourselves.
Ourselves smothered, we rest upon that familiar wrinkled breast.

Their expression is a form of frustration,
Those who teach themselves the dance
And profess their worth, grow horns and rise with the angels.
Now it comes, rumbling like majesty.
The traps have been cut.
The way is shown by indigo eyes and violet infants.
'Here, come, the four brothers! '
And they do, and Mercurius the hermaphrodite as well!
'His prophecy was correct, the doe-eyed child and his broom! '
Then they see; the Queen is but the King in arms. We are all royalty.
This age came with reason, and history, but it's worth coils into all palms.
All palms but yours, the stupor child with the bleeding skull and hollow black eyes.