Leon Moon

Then, with a weak hand, he wrote:
‘I must stop dreaming, I am nearly seventeen,
To forge that grand old age bespoke
I mustn't rest in an evocation wisdom has yet seen
...

Condemned to the last subjective death,
Freed by the assessment of sorrow,
Frenzies of glass crystallise a breath
Preserving the final reign of tomorrow.
...

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.
...

The Earth I find
Is the centre of my mind;
Despite infinity
It shows itself to me;
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Deprived of her depravity
She relies on for sanity,
She rips me apart so silently,
Crushed by the wind of her armed neutrality,
...

Only If I had the braveries of Dawn,
Where all is possible and all is seen
But I jump out of bed and arch in drowsiness
Putting socks, trousers and idleness all on my suit
...

Never tired, he lugs the weight,
Setting salt stones in his ribs.
He reaches for the weight
Which every orphan dwells for —
...

Is it true after the end comes repetition?

The Universe always knows more.
...

The disease! — Wandering aimlessly,
Prophet of Waterfalls; —

The disease! — Tearing curtains,
...

And in the midst of a deep sleep
You realise what keeps you awake;
A lack of harmony can only creep
Through manors poached before you speak.
...

You think your thought is modern
Because it knows how to act in culture!
Take from the place thoughts come from,
Where Everything is known.
...

I am supplemented in the eyes of others,
Modernity has no meaning within estranged youth;
I am exiled from my birth, I am forced upon the taste of dust
And I rely on my shaking weight for approval;
...

A state which is masked by a costume
And a mind impressed by shadows,
Though the weeping heat of mothers eyes
Is known to it, all is masked by a man who speaks less
...

Defining black and white,
Still I write,
Compulsions rely on God
And retractions sleep onto the beauty of nothing
...

My mind is a wasteland of eternal fantasy
And to see, is to hustle mirages of old age
Bowing to youth in despairing barbarity.
I am no more than a silhouette evoked with rage;
...

The False Monarchy
Swamps our mind in acid gold,
Brewing in Merchants
...

The decaying stillness of a reflection
Props me up right to my own subjection,
Outlasting the tail of dawn by ignoring God,
Glistening through each blood-orange window shard.
...

Can you only fall upon knowledge?
I'm sure it's pride because one's proud to know.
Thought takes you away from now; —
Slide down the bands, cut the limitations of thought.
...

"My mind is a sanctuary full of thorns
Where from the heart sprouts as a timeless rose;
O' the beauty of this wicked distraction!
Not yet curdled to the dire taste of shame
...

Spheres of flesh without centres ignite the unfamiliar approach of Sunset, reflecting endless consistencies of life, fashioning light through services commemorating anguish, the rhythms repeated in auditoriums belonging to the entirety of Nature not yet received; the ink of innocence, a grudge strengthened by neglection; — sap scurries across winds, slipping through dyed grass and hollowed oak, sticking sight to a miniature festival testifying a New Beauty, the lifelong ambition shadowed only by basic remorse! — The Divine Exchange of instinctual reaction departs youth, the forever returning ephemeral performance, disintegrating under a Summer light blackening winter, a season which has no need to see us again.

Slumped down, in each other's arms, on scaffolds beside purple waterfalls — the all too familiar feeling which indicates nothing, no victory, no loss, but an aftermath sets in our stomachs, reminding us both of the horizon in Venice; — too silent to be understood as anything but decay, I watch on as ancient actors find themselves jagged and bleeding in the foam of the rapids, - our breath loses it's significance once again.
...