Implausible Genuinity Poem by Leon Moon

The basic regime of a child scared to look at the Sun,
The thoughts of wasting too much time thinking,
Embodying in mirrors how to act while running outside.
Alone, matching eternity as pride,
The instinct crumbles to what it never was,
Floating away on images I can barely touch.

Dreadful hours when I could not speak,
The moment capsizing antiquity!
The senseless brilliance of self-sacrifices!
My arms, echoless, eternal trunks
Found their roots in the veins of the sky,
Finding their wish by finding another eye.

Fifteen years old and an eternity all to myself!
The forever end of an understanding of each age!
First, it starts with laughter.
Next, disgust.
Then comes the irony of understanding what happens after.
I make a fool out of everyone but myself! — Oh Great….

Whatever! — sanctified gas houses, dribbling constancy,
Too old to believe how young I once was, etc. etc….
I consider modern fatigue to be anticipation.
With the first imprints of memory
I create masterpieces as the other children sleep.
I have learnt how to never forget anything in this state.

I know rain as if it is my own blood.
How do these musicians, especially the teachers,
Not realise the eternal opera bursting to white on the walls?
Why can I only hear the soft electric ocean,
Burying each motion as eternity?
I know what is to come of me, but why is there an idea of reason to know at all?

Like someone great might have once said,
One forgets everything in this state
Only to remember it again in a dream.
I was only ever proving I was right.
I always hide in plain sight,
Suffocating in negations of light.

Sickly, Sickly! …. Ah….Sickly! Sickly!
What o what is there to taste,
Dreamy, dreamy, see me, see me —
Reign over, clover me in four pots
Whispering secrecy to certify existence.
I am everything you have never met.

The only thing I have learnt in a classroom
Is how to torture myself with humour,
Absorbing each difference hiding as me in itself.
Dreadful hours when I could not speak,
Bored to the death, the donation of reason!
I am the reality of nothing pretending it's one.

I pick the scabs scarring themselves in the sky.
I have already died, I just need to live out my destiny.
Water-boarded and wet-bedded, drenched in language,
I circle the ritual of rekindling the dying Sun.
I act out my own death constantly.
I am the last child of eternity.