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13: 00

Doors swung open with feigned eloquence
And eyes left ajar from daunted pretense
As time flew back towards the pleasant
Odyssey of your gentle goodnight
And the dark and piercing star-screams
Were heard guffawing and echoing
When the interpolating bliss ceased
With the last painted malady

The penumbra of the waxing moon
Incessantly stropped the brusque fringes
Of her stalemate blight, insinuatingly,
A pall of her emollient jet-black locks
Fell unto the fluorescence of her face
In the stillness of the windless sand
It whispered a riddance, droning,
That the ebbing water palmed
Into a turbid naivety: Good bye.

Your swimming eyes found a moor
To carry yourself in the oceanic morsel
Of a misbegotten yesterday, whilst I
Was caught in the transition of consciousness
The lissome hands of time rat-racing
To catch each other's ornate grip

I was beckoned to sleep
I was surmised to a defeat

We are watching dancing lips
Undulating to the familiar songs
Of farewells and good nights

At 13: 00 - the perfect time
To connive against the lies -
We succumb into what we hated
Into the condescending wings
Of time's soundless flight
Like a connoisseur harlequin
It bent a grin concealed of menacing
And inveigled us to an esplanade
In the ethereal timelessness
That shatters the clockwork;
Wither the blossoming,
Freeze the truant spring,
Desecrate the ripening

When I reimbursed what I have thrived:
A gathering of imperial plights
Your cloyed grace departed the tableau
And for all that was misconstrued,
And for all these endeavoring you abandoned
I still ask myself every 13 o'clock:
Where are you, felled seraphim?

poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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