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
...

Condemned to the last subjective death,
Freed by the assessment of sorrow,
Frenzies of glass crystallise a breath
Preserving the final reign of tomorrow.
...

The Earth I find
Is the centre of my mind;
Despite infinity
It shows itself to me;
...

Deprived of her depravity
She relies on for sanity,
She rips me apart so silently,
Crushed by the wind of her armed neutrality,
...

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
...

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.
...

I reside in a reality where only love reigns.
I have conquered every aspect of the psyche, the golden waterfalls
And comic book triangles are a living, breathing prophecy
Which guide my walk to the furnace where no evil lies. -
...

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;
...

Homesick from shellshock, as always, a suspension spontaneously supplying its own combustion through child-like dialecticism and a figure of reach indulges in prophecies of oblivion.
Nothing else is free, except the chemist who'll choose how the illusion of claustrophobia will grow.
Dread from a positive charge split into hindsight and immediate fortune, the bitter railways tracking memory as legacy idealise the invention of time by suppressing hands under fine-hairs clipping their own messages of growth, soaking lives in boredom, projecting spheres of endless realism into reason, the blade carving caricatures from bone.
Nothing is ever born, even thought is outdated by what we can see, beholding a death defined by what it believes what it was to be.
...

Never tired, he lugs the weight,
Setting salt stones in his ribs.
He reaches for the weight
Which every orphan dwells for —
...