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Ousted

In this madhouse world
Where the beacons are blind
And the canopies succumb
My eager sprouting vines
I tend to escape away
Engage in a subtle espionage
For the quintessence of life
Does not crawl in the skin
Of this moiré perfection that
Idealism vied to wrought
Under our noses and
Beneath our roof beams.

A tatterdemalion meanderer
Of agog sole and yearning,
A goaded and fragile arsenal
Of words and contours
Slurring in surreal slopes
To defy and to define
My voraciousness for hope
A touch on its sterile skin
Chaste, clean and deceptive—
A blinded scheme of beauty
I am a stain, a blotch of blood
Like a maladroit red pyrotechnic
Scintillating eloquently in
The undulations of the water

So I trampled in a rendezvous
With the stale grandiose of bitterness
Ensconced in the trance and
Inveigles of cheap panaceas
To desperately dab the wounds
Of the flagrant destitution
And to extol the fumes that
Will hide the desiccation
Of an unrequited contending
And no one will have to know
That you are ousted from
The sunset of your own funeral.

Everything shriveled,
Darkened and crunched
And putrefied without
A chance of exoneration
Because I cannot mourn with you
And dissect my lamentations
In your hands, for you have
Superfluous wrists of four
But only a single pulse
That cannot alter the beating
For a klutz waltz of death
If another wrist shall bleed
And the sun went down
Dripping with a red star
Ousted from the sky.

This is how it works;
This is how we'll subsist
When the Gods sequester
The bones and the morsels
From the aptitude of spirit
Ousted from their schemes
Their lives tight-roping seams
To live on without it and in
Solitary confinement.

poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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