Hudson
Hudson bawled loudly inside his head
As the harpoons of lightning struck
Piercing his six-inch thick chest.
He had expected the violent rasp
Before it had even transpired,
Essentially, he actually
Ignited the electrified fire;
But farcically or inevitably,
It had not kept him from turning over
To flailing into the famished sea
Of consuming ignorance
It had consumed him, especially his eyes,
Now aqueous and dithering
With no reservations for coagulation.
With such wavering and waxed vision,
Hudson had dispensed vexation
Into a twaddle tug-of-war
Between skepticism and ignorance.
He tried to outrun the asphyxiation
In butterfly-pace as he let the bleeding
Deluge and wear out, until the veins
And the valves caressing the rivulets
Of his blood would halt,
And the serrations need not to clot.
He tried to outrun his pervading nightmares,
His abandonments, his interstates,
His moon, his sun, his stars,
His one-man-bandwagon of harlequinade.
He tried to elude them
With a dragonfly's erratic flight.
Hudson had successfully left Summer,
But as he painstakingly vied
To latch its portcullis,
The whiff of Summer's aberrant
Redolence of tawny sun,
Tangerine skies,
Languid inebriations,
Warm tans in shuffling sands,
And a searing foliage
Of innocuous complacence,
Had been pulling and keeping him
From shutting the closing gate.
Relentless, Hudson, lunged
Forward towards another invitation.
An invitation to another dance
In the halls of ambiguity,
In poetries,
In subtle tacit game of charade,
In perplexity.
Autumn's adamantine gates
Beckoned a subtle hint
Of the mistral winter winds
And it had kept Hudson
From moving farther.
Autumn's portcullis remained ajar,
Partly inviting in sly
And partly halting a spider-chance.
Two rooms, both doors opened;
Two wounds, both left to bled,
Vulnerable from infections
Dabbing the serrations
With rasping sedations.
Hudson was in the sea
Of vexation.
Hudson was resuscitating
In an oxymoronic cul-de-sac;
Trapped in between two doors.
Tangled with the laces
Of the feelings of rue,
Of defeat,
Of abandonment,
Of death,
And one-sided bliss,
Of fettered bliss,
Of hollow unrequited bliss.
Hudson had lost his name
In a perpetual sunset
Between two opened doors.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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