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.
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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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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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Little boy, weeping over your mother,
How pathetic that you disregard nature
And try and hold her as she goes on!
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An interval gains momentum as flesh,
Recovering the anxiety of time,
Moulding itself as a dagger to hearts; —
Used, but never worn,
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Every man, alone in his dream,
Tormented through suffocation,
Objectified crucifixion,
Carries the dead without ever
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Unrecognisable to present judgement —
Acutely applicable to the degradation
Of moral satisfaction,
The current character bespoke
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