The River's Bourne (Prose) Poem by Leon Moon

Before an alleway of tongues coiling to the Embarrassment of a personal globe descending upon a cobbled lane in a rose-freckled vale, all rehearsals await as memories and desires are weighed; a little girl makes acquaintance with the beating rain, harmonies of oblivion's constancy bellows, as if in tune with her pale, drawn out eyes, preying upon the scales of landscapes, taste ignites to a sound to be seen. Do they thaw to her thoughts? ..
No! — all vexations and impatience bear a tired eye, red with the awakening of the Sun for no dream...
Battlefields are glazed in darkness, lit vigils mine for gold — all men express the same body…
Her stoup has been tainted by foreign paws, ancient beasts, and wrinkled fingers insisting to slough — isle's of moss float upon her lips like the petals on Ophelia's breast, still with the waves; -
Squirming in the dying beauty of remorse, purple and magenta maggots suckle the bleached Earth, gnawing Venus' clumpy, white scalp — their coagulation of adulthood falls pale at the breath of reflected flesh.
Trickles of blood merge to symphonies, storms fade to mere Orchestra's guiding the passing mind, as if history was always a novelty, the hollow chests of walls echo like a basin of tin, waterfalls and golden streams of mercury flood the horizon…
— Golden foam from a trumpet's bowl coils around my wrist, exploding all mounds and hairs into an image of a panting beast, resting in the innocence of death, tacking viscera to roads without end. The beastdares only to awake for fated sensations.
I have returned…