Hot-Coal Poem by Leon Moon

singing hymns about lighthouses
tumbling walls of Jericho
the breeze is never stagnant
boredom is easy
the day lasts forever
nothing vanishes faster
the joy of growing old
before the sun knew cold, hot-coal
in hands clenched to grasp
the love rightfully stole

this seed could not die
the cavity where its soil lies
bares no time to be gauged
pried and broken
an immovable incarnation
so far removed from who we are
the refusal to believe
we become what we fled
transient eternity
piling the dead

I have not been invented yet
the pain of love's awakening
has yet put a curfew on sun-set
there is only one night known
and it hasn't dreamt regret
with nothing to invest
and only time to undress
I re-live the mini deaths
memory kept
the more returned, less and less

placing apples and crusts on the road
at the bus-stop I have no use for,
we piss ourselves at the tires crushing
the lunch we saved into oblivion,
stronger than chalk-white teeth
our laughter fresher than the years between
how the years passed are now more a dream
less real than when Santa was seen
the forbidden bank, ageless man-hunt
the burnt grass and charcoal leaves

dilating over green and green