Pseudo-Romanticism
If lips shall lock,
hands be bolted,
should eyes be closed?
Should souls be soused
in ice, in fire, in electric shivers?
The scintillating intermingling
would linger deep
etched to never cease
like how poetries seal
the bashful emotions,
the reticent desires,
and the feral suffering
Teach me how
to lull your tremors;
what scull your waves
and funnels your vertigo?
Teach me how
to paint your bliss
and erode your malaise
for I know nothing
but the honesty in
entangling strings,
and eloquent attraction
Teach me how to pry
behind your perfumes
and the buds of your
daffodils and carnations
The mellifluous quartz
would recognize my weight
if I can carry you
as I trespass shadows,
chase vicissitude and
molest limitations
But you have to teach me -
Instill knowledge in my
deterred incarceration
if knowledge is important
in romanticism
Or perhaps
all you need is
to unfurl a face,
your empty hands,
your crimson lips
that are devised beautifully
to sing of poetries -
of forthright audacity
in bearing fragile petals
Reveal the mirrors
of your somnolent eyes
and cure my myopia
by reflecting my scars
Break me gently
but do not go gentle
in fixing my wreck
as you infest me
with hope, again
over and over until
I have nothing more
But do not unleash me from
my broken tethers
because they are the vestiges
Of what I used to call love
now in a ludicrous visage
are these tassels
where you should start
to weave and resent
The more I speak
the more I descry
how ignorant I am,
how fastidious, how stiff,
about romanticism
because love
was my painted malady,
my broken fix
And with all my
broken bones
and haunted places
compassion and sympathy
would never cure
my spurious charades
I need my fix
that keeps me broken
and it's not even
a simple romanticism.
poem by Norman Santos
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