Becoming A Hyena
Recounting the stars,
Picking up the bones,
The night is a child
Tinkering the sky
With innocuous charms
And sedating the pains
That the laughs cannot evade
Reckoning the sward,
Letting go of the winds,
The bleeding is a mother
Cradling the scouring life
With her emollient palm
Dabbing the desiccation
That the guffaws cannot shun
Shooting for the farfetched,
Sinking in the vale,
A dream is a fault in the season
Defining delusion
Accurately with her sharp sword
Riving the jocund wile
That this man is all about.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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