Xist Poem by Leon Moon

Alone in a one night-stand
compromise self-ridiculing
to bliss, I search for
ancient reassurances, left
to expect nothing but revelations
I can hang up as the Sun.

I only wish to speak
of the unknown, the source
from which we experience
and carve a cross from time,
the resistance we enforce
as our property, no matter where we go.

Interact with your imagination
of me, lets expose ourselves
in nothingness; we're the irony
of endlessness, our soul is nothing
but a witness to connotation,
the fabric moulding cultural isolation.

Sunrise always finalises evolution,
we aspire only to uniqueness,
may pilgrims using their flesh as chalk,
mathematical degradations impacting movement
subsiding into the role of identity,
the crystallisation of our feelings into traits.

Depth blurs captivation,
the secret tunnel out of the jungle,
prescribed by the imagination
as equal to god, revitalised by governments
who despise their own nakedness
and adore amnesia, wishing only to live underground.