Set To Use Poem by Leon Moon

Condemned to the last subjective death,
Freed by the assessment of sorrow,
Frenzies of glass crystallise a breath
Preserving the final reign of tomorrow.
I come from nowhere and I set to use
The weight of empty assurances,
The veins and vessels of life itself;
I hold onto a mother's worry
— The last scream of her dying son,
His unknown promise — in attempt
To craft an art worth dying for;
Nature is a martyr of concealment,
I have touched, or, I have been touched
By every known realm of solitude,
Recognised by the man you saw last,
Splitting the interval of internal difference,
Convexing electric reflections;
Sitting on a balcony hungover the Sun,
I catch glimpses of the bald heads I spit on,
They can only ever represent Greek ruins;
History is a dying fanfare, as usual,
And only the memory of Dawn remains -
Perfectly malnourished! - Along with the music,
The defining predicate of this exquisite scene,
An uncanny reason leading moonless nights,
The sound of plastic fruit, scripts and foam stairs
Crunch to the fading of sleep, creating silence,
The stage of eternal appearance; —
Nowhere but here, set to use.