To My Lie Poem by Leon Moon

With all celestial sincerity, I had no idea the cradle
Had a taste for the viscousness of it's own sickliness,
I have always took for granted the impending
Celebrant who decorates the sunlight with a rattle
And proceeds to write the epitaph of his own confess,
Suckling the guilt that keeps him standing

I I

I entertain nothing but the devil of myself,
The rigid instinct that is his ontology,
And salve all which pushes my nostrils to hell;
I roam in the void as if I never fell
And enact the worth of my own history,
Discovering while I relinquish the duty of self.

Improvisation is my favourite form of death,
The filed down antlers serve as scenery
For the empire with no gold left,
Bell-towers drip with the mucus of breath
Begging for a hand that doesn't strike greedily
On the weight catching our own theft.

I'm sorry for what you'll never know,
Ignoring the perfection igniting thought
As well as the birds decking music in halls;
I'm sorry for what I never brought,
But still I lug and constantly rewire to show
The capsized Earth mutated by ball-reflected winds.