The Eve Of Starvation Poem by Leon Moon

It turns out, and with all spiritual sincerity, I belong to the Eve of Starvation.
An infinity objectifying its own existence, I slaughter the opportunity of eternal nothingness, weaving flesh from a pendulum struck by a tear of lightning.
Everything tilts but never turns, seemingly capsizing without ever fully being sunk.
This rare moment we call the universe cherishing its own existence is pure negation.
We predate belonging.
All is gone for its always going, nothing is going for its always gone. (It's been said too often before)
Life is our own objectified infinity in an active state of transformation instigated by the value we impose upon subjectivity, the despair alone belongs to eternity, the form creating sides as well as tunnels filling breath by hollowing out the sides which could never have been there to begin with.
My world, she says.
You pretend she never mimics the dance you secretly adore.
What will this be —
A carnival? A flower? A desire? A spider? A rainbow? A rock? A death? A love?
One must understand the value of a vein before the disease of paradise decides to rest upon ignorance, founding its fortune upon incestual narcissism.
I for one have spent too long pretending mirrors are just a by-product of revelation.
I am destined to burn out in my own blueprints of salvation.
Inverted to birth, extradited without a pulse,
Only I can belong, as nothing else
To the Eve of Starvation.