Suitcases
I reckon in vivid pangs
like a salient entropy,
the pedagogy gnawing
in the sorry eyes
and the train arrives
confronting me with
my failures and losses
The first of the months
the weakening sanctum,
the constant rumination,
how we've been each other's asylum
now the suitcase's lock is defunct
and it is all spilling out -
I cannot hold it back
The arch your spine made
as you lower your head
on ponderous nimbuses
I was always at your back
but you never looked back
as your klutz feet escapes
from your past, your present
My sinewy hands percolating
amongst the fumbling words
your nimble silence still
knows how to decipher it all
and this belying gold
underneath the mud and stones
reminds me that we are
made of the same dreams and bones
And you, your hands behind the sun
I remember it like my own
the ashen pallor unmasked
by the summer's penumbra
How they tread what we all fear
stroking palettes, caressing words
you are a furtive cavalcade
I remember you hands
like how I remember your smile,
there were blue rivulets in them,
the tips are naked crimson
reaching past the mirage
but didn't cast a shadow
Like the bony moon transpiring
between day and night light
you reconnoiter my abysses -
a gilded debauchery
tarrying the train's clockwork oars
because the suitcase remained
broken, opened, larcenously swallowing.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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