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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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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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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The Earth I find
Is the centre of my mind;
Despite infinity
It shows itself to me;
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I can no longer bare the thought of walking beside
Violet coasts inside caves without end; to coincide
With water, to give and repeal, give and repeal,
No longer seeking the suffering of what it is to be real;
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The False Monarchy
Swamps the mind in acid gold,
Brewing in Merchants
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Fractal machines, pisces nets unlike their mirrored
Spine hardened to a form of use, the burden creating uselessness,
Though by distinction to an idea of sound absolutely divine,
Mirrored by way of a droplet, untouched by touching clay,
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Permeating silence's frozen dream idleness steals…

Blackness' Empress carves poachers from silhouettes
Pilgrims store in prismatic caverns, ever lasting the elastic static
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