Leon Moon Poems

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
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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.
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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,
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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
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Never tired, he lugs the weight,
Setting salt stones in his ribs.
He reaches for the weight
Which every orphan dwells for —
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Is it true after the end comes repetition?

The Universe always knows more.
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The disease! — Wandering aimlessly,
Prophet of Waterfalls; —

The disease! — Tearing curtains,
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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.
...