Matter Of Lamb Poem by Leon Moon

Indeed, poetry is the path above
Two ways: such freedom fits the ill-fated
For self-praise unrelated makes the sun
Shine brighter, bright enough to break the day.
To abdicate legacies of genius
Seems the best form to water my silence
For I know what I am: that is enough
And less than if I rely on myself too much.
Voice need not be heard to make the blood run
And yet as I crumple leaves upon the path
My soul seems perched on a blade of grass
Stranded and immersed, wholly un-detached.

Vacant like the mind behind invasion
Towards: the clouds caught by each crown felled down,
Coerced and plundered by holy vengeance
That guarantees the saint's apparition.
All of this I know: all of here I hold:
I tell you it all as if I was told
By captives who fought for my position
Not opposition or proposition
But the persecuted who did not run.
The superstition to conceive a son
Shall turn my father dead and turn my head
Inwards: to our father above my head.