Inscriptions Without November Poem by Leon Moon

I infect those who watch me.
Every age progresses by attaining something it thinks it deserves.
Too scared to think alone, I bestow everything with life; - dead, dying, between both.
Every possible material composing reality is an ephemeral melody chasing itself for eternity, the drainpipes swell with violet, spring spawns out of the medium connected to crystal pillars; Mussolini awakes from the clouds, tearing the ground from under our feet, the nakedness which is no more than a template engraved with patterns we use as fate, beyond the snake twirled around sunlight blackening presence, the reminder we forget that were once, in fact, very alive in childhood.

I

All that you think you know is based off Love, the basis of existence chases Love for its foundation is Love, whether it is composed of Love or travels through Love, creating itself, a thought's dependency, waiting to be expressed by something you believe should never have existed. Thought is Love's divine excrement, within yourself are the echoes of a waterfall of Pure Love manifesting being from a whirlpool of peace perceiving itself as a black hole in the mirror dividing itself as a pupil.