Still As A Clock
When will the lacquer veneer erode with
Serrated shards of your jubilant complacence?
The Walls of Troy shouting an echolalia
Of somnabulistic susurrations usurping
The harried ego vying in barricaded seams,
Still finagles its claws on the svelte frame
Of my despondent shoulders and the burden
Is etched deeply into the collar bones, strangulated
By the vines of your leisurely blooming garden
Where time sinks into the hollow void,
And strings of icicles soused in fire,
Forbidden memories sprawls like the dermis
Of the passing season's contingency,
And words fluttered like innocuous paper planes
Winnowed by heaving breaths of serendipity
And pummeled by the soft drizzles of verity
Tarnishing the frangible papyrus into the salient
Turbulence of malignant clouts of veracity
When will you arrive like the sun rise
Before you leave like the setting sun?
Dispose the vicissitude's blithe
With the inert plummets of life.
When will you leave like the shadows
Looming in the patios of the nights
And shudder in the vivid throws
Of fire balls and gospel songs?
When will your height reveal the distance
And the depths of the cognizance
Slapping the macadamized ignorance?
When will the engulfing calls
Die with the siren's songs?
When will the sirens drown
Along with the harried frowns?
I'm here, still as a clock
Futilely meandering.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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