'And Off I Write' Poem by Leon Moon

I am the starvation of oblivion.
Halting the interior backlash
That ever escapes the senses,
I rest my head on a tree stump.

I hate myself, because I know I can.
The eagle's eye shrivels, it's a cane,
The feast of worms which would satisfy man
If not they were clogged up in him, and tangled in his mane!
The monk's ring of hair rusts when i speak, the illusion of Pan! .
But ah! The very essence of his breath is what causes the pain,
The bed-drift of anguish isolating every heart
Nourished to life, whether or not it seeks the redemption
Of evil, or the evil of redemption;
I see both the same, I am each one moving.
All for you only if I could return without asking;
Without writing; who bred the instinct into physicality
To hate ourselves in the eyes of love?