Taverns
Amongst buoyant chortles
And charlatan tales
From sinewy gutters
Of jocund corruptions
The wafting jigger
And latticing clambers
Of fervent tongues brought
Nostalgia dissipated
From the clogged pores
Of the shriveling skin,
And melancholia was
As evasive as the wind
With the yearning dithering
In the echopractic reveling
Frosted eyes mounted the seams
Of barricading sierras
And you wouldn't hear
The riddance of the opened doors
In these taverns
You may rest your head
And haunt with
The phantom of the blunt
Susurrations of the floor
Clad with anguished blood
Purging the mausoleum gore
Residing in the bones
In these taverns
You may play the puppet
Stringed to your own
And play the criminal
In a sordid carnival
Botching to pilfer
The hooked gambler's
Clandestine pockets
Or somebody else's
Putrefaction
And be hailed
A hero
In these taverns
You will go astray
With the roars of
Singeing throats
And in the predicament
Impaled with grills
You shall be found
Moseying
With charred feet
And holding
A sedentary poem
Basking in the eyes
Of inebriation
In these taverns
There's a pot of gold
Swimming with the arrows
That struck the strings
Of fettered birds
And they are winnowed
By the fluent humming
Of false hopes
And sedative truths.
In these taverns
You may come
And you may go,
As everyone else will,
But you would leave
With the toll
Of a spiteful
Meandering.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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