A Memoir of Moormont

Yesterday blackens our lungs bearing fruits,

Crisp juiciness wrapping around spindle vines.

When yesterday’s reality spits its rocks at our chests, 

We make gestures towards our bones for any story in this cobweb town. 

Crisp juiciness wraps around spindle vines 

In Moormont, and novels awaken in the leaves. 

Our bones live to tell these stories in cobweb towns 

When we touch the tips of stars on this boundless, gravelled land. 

Novels awaken in the leaves, 

And we forget yesterday’s darkness

In the tips of stars burning on boundless land,

Embracing everything our hearts desire. 

Forgetting about yesterday’s darkness

In flames of red brick laid,

Which embrace and envelop everything our hearts desire, 

We feel sparks splash in a ripple up our spines.

In the flames of red brick laid, 

We saw ourselves, our town, 

With sparks that splash in a ripple up our spines.

We saw it a seed heaving desire. 

We saw ourselves, our town, 

And forgot about yesterday, who blackens our lungs bearing fruits. 

We saw it a seed heaving desire, 

Spitting at our chests with consciousness.