Behind Your Calculations
Your svelte hands
zithers the abacus
that calculates
your reluctant fandango
like how it played
the harp
in the nights
where the pebbles
are sharp jewels
And the dexterity
of your tumbling specks
of gaiety
is a regal piece
of oblivion
Your summer sky
hailed a silver gilt
in somersaulting rifts
of the sun's corolla
And underneath
this impeccable
façade of cordiality
is a clandestine
volition,
like shards
of porcelains
roused from a wound -
A nurtured
compulsion
or, perhaps
repulsion
Is this why
you pawned the plumage
and its eloquent stride
for the symmetry
of reality?
Your forfeited simplicity
is a prolix riddle
under the myriad
colors of a mirage
and those
with poor visions
will never encompass
through your promises
and its drifting
haze
The pollens on your face
always blossomed
[...] Read more
poem by Norman Santos
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