A Perfect Day To Sail
Autumn hovered above the maladroit clouds
To descry our sanctum and astray meanders
And She shuddered, sprinkling a daze of gold
And sifted the ashes and bones of our deaths
In the sieves of Her trident are the remnants
Where my soul remained haplessly enthralled
And we watched it wan and die in a murder:
An auspicious castration of the gray curtains
In your resilient grin it flaunts a descant of scenes-
A bipolar thrill cleaves in me, a timorous ecstasy:
Eccentric and riveting, undulating and banefully riving.
The ghastly gossamer blooms saliently in the mire
Like a trickle of blood blossoming in the silver lake,
The ruse of vicissitude obfuscates a brand new shade
And the excoriation tautly smothers my inside
Drowning the myriad collections of pilfered sighs
But your picture was a pristine escalation, a stupor
Of purged exoneration, I loosen my heaving breath
Unlatched my tacit eyes to resign my contending
And permit the enigmatic lagoon tinker my incertitude
For it mirrors your mirth, and there sank my ululations
"The veneer of the lake, the psalms of the mimic sierras,
The soughing of the albino birches, the chanting of cicadas,
The touting of the gilded rays, the disgorging of the panorama,
The diadem of the sky; like an aubade of fata morgana"
You uttered them in a foreign voice that flabbergasts my storms
I cringed, lost in insecurity, musing on the ail of your panacea
And the whirlwind inside sculls heavier but the lake was mute
And resilient as you are, perhaps, I needed an ounce of fortitude-
A sliver of hope, a shard of faith: a chance to experience verve
In a sly jauntiness you seared like a blithe phalanx
And I vied for involution to reap my own wings
But I can only connive with the shoved ghosts
And commiserate with the aborted sorrows,
A desolate man juxtaposed a vindicated soul
In front of a fastidious lake that mirrors my demands,
I flinched but I cannot reveal, I broke but I cannot bleed
I interposed my share of inconsistency but I cannot feel
A desolate man—a warden, a prison; a perplex abolition
Is all that I can sap from the plenitude of sedations
"It is a good day for a stride, let's haul the boat"
You inveigled with the season's gaudy feint
"Of course, let's hurtle down the sleeping lake"
I superimposed an unrivaled acquiescence
But the fears marauding like tempest thunders
Sundered the soul from the quintessence of words
And there you are in your abundant bliss
Ferried in a chaise of victory, eagerly departing
To greener grounds, I assume without doubts
While I remained moored into my crackled grounds
Capitulated by the chicanery of severe turpitude
"Ho! The wind is good—warm and cold! "
You hollered as you run and swell like the lake
I broke another grin for the oxymoronic slate
And the fogs devoured your fine silhouette
As winter perched in my shoulders, frost biting
My finagling yearns and thwarting my fleet
Riveted with a peremptory despondence for escape
I can only aggrandize the inadequate profanity
"This is my moiré skin, see the scars running?
These are my maps, the vales in the cicatrix;
This what I cannot depart, in all my spite,
This is where I have become—my ocean, my lake,
My only birth land and my sole grave"
I quivered my lips in your bleared visage
And from the veil a bray pierced like lightning
"It's a perfect day to sail! " There was quietude
"It's a perfect day to sail! " Your new etude.
The sun smoldered His wrath arduously
And the dews slewed from the genteel leaves
Whilst I, unmoved in my inert imposed grace,
Sailed the perfect day to sail away.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.