Exhumed Poem by Leon Moon

a man only walks free
in the world he birthed
once a language is his own
the duty is to sculpture thought—
vessels to lands unknown to maps.
ferryman, burn alive mummified pilgrims
set them alight on their due course
even if no on utters a word of't.

Leon Moon's Epitaph,1993-2017

Exhumed

the sun; a headstone, hidden in fescue
pours a path; the overgrown underground
and forages til; out of itself fashions
from silent wind; a compass to encompass
in the centre line; every sign of life
object and subject; traces and abides
til spaces bares space; no space to justify
enough to lessen time; stretch the river
and quench the desolate mind; a shiver
riddled to a cornered whirlwind; our eye
punished by lashes of scorn and why; blink
and blinks til two eyes shine open the earth;

the present is a mummified jigsaw-
piece, drawn and quartered: undiscovered
still, ripped and torn: the petals stay intact.
no need for seeds to ensure it's reborn:
mere eye to pry; socket to amplify
sea of soil and oils, the waves of warning
"do not fall victim to the water's course! "
the ship amidst our mundane enterprise
and these roots for which sailors mourn
and buy vases and gloves for their new born
stir wind on window panes and chase rain
to stems: and stems are rolling pins; rolling tide

torrential onslaught of buyer's remorse
shaking droplets, corridor of unopened doors
is the morning bludgeoning our dream's cause
as a cuckoo clock flocks ‘cross endless moors
til desire has no desire to mix air
with earth to birth a tide of fire and rock
is solemn beauty, or perfect despair
fought for true enough to forge key and lock
rooks wake to wake to an unsullied wake
for the morgue of dawn to bare one mere shape
shook til fate is fate and no more fate
and chimes chime no season to lay to waste.