Relaxation, An Only Cost Poem by Leon Moon

A suspension of silence, no longer than a minute, lasts an hour. The odd delicacy of a drop of flesh observing the backdrop's essence by asking to be wrote about saves our relatives and surprises us with gifts, prisons of harmonies.
Possessed by the fact he thinks, fate's reduced to subjective necessity and represented as a reflection pushed against our throat, harnessing through a centre a new found reaction to nothingness, stimulating sight: benevolence of circuses define the point of ignoring entertainment, the shape's impact, burrowing to stabilise unintention, where mother shocks you with memory, impressions of a life tinting every current view.
I command death to not act, or observe my euphoria; the kind escorting us to reversals of power, sweetness of replies...ah! All assurance equalised!
Crumbling under adherents of rectitude, preordered establishments isolating the heart victimise themselves in a beam of light; grasping your hand tighter, I no longer seek the irony of pain, self-replicating systems confounding soil.