Metamorphosing Into Poignancy
There upon the soughing coughs of
the interminable vacuum of gravity,
the poems sprawled intermingling with
a desire to be read along with tatterdemalion
tragedies awaiting for the fall of Troy's defenses
to succumb into the unsolicited succors
cloyed upon your generous hands
Bibliophilic remedies only revives the flowers
felled in your gray-faced mausoleum
along with the bard's crooning to the
marigolds prancing for rain and sunshine;
The reflection in the blood-spattered tiles pries
for a sangfroid perchance that barters treasures
for these despondent malingerers' desire
Defenestrated with a roll of tobacco-lust,
the effluence of smoke carrying your faint
ambers crawled into the sky before it fecundated -
skin to soul inward-fulmination, and gave birth
to a phantasmagoria festooned with the veritable
pangs of misery protecting the frailty of
a white rose's calculated corolla of petals
There is no backdoors waiting in this labyrinth
so I roamed with dove-feet sunwards
donned in a raiment of shattered glass, I kneel
before the moon's phosphorous jeopardy
and prayed a succinct and embarrassed plea
to be taken in the cradles of your lost lullaby
But the cacophonous propinquity of the
dungeons where I abolished my only wish and
the suppuration of your tender pensiveness
toppled in a gravid dyslexia of niceties
and the entropy of empathy succumbs
to the larceny where the mindless
dandelions gave up their roots and family
What is more austere than the grief in wanting
something as perilous as a freefall in a gully
of fatally abundant-coloured finches is to
tether one's desire to the sullen bliss of
an empty tableau that ousts every blood
etched upon its obstinate ashen skin
The windless sand caught the fire seething
with the raining lances and the insinuation
of naivety personified, and in that cold war,
haplessly naked to the merciless conflagrations
I permitted my shriveled hands to percolate
through the infinite quartz, probing for the lost
end of a shapeless thread that shall fit the
ajar eye of my needle and perhaps resume
the weaving of my already sun-washed tapestry
Metamorphosing endlessly, shifting is a fix
below the grandiosity of chandeliers and
inside the cravings of a lurid vanity
mirroring the grotesque aftermath,
on and on, I debilitated my perfunctory mouth
to spill the simple soul into the garish light
without any rational purpose at all.
poem by Norman Santos
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