Echoes Of The Silence
The black squirming beads
Confine the groveling quietus
Beneath the strands of my canopy
And it cradles a somnolence
Farce, vis-à-vis the despondence
Of the elusive spangling ivories
Amidst the sound of desolation
I can hear the echoes fringe
The quiescent of a hiatus
Of the shriveling breaths
Of my lost secluded island
Where the sun never mount
Thus, never shrink out
From the dearth of my toppling horizon
Effervescent carols linger and slither
Suffocating the mistral atmosphere
Reckoning the blaring tapestry
Albeit, the frescoes dispensed
The myriad of gaiety's absence
Mantled by the echoes of silence
Of the rattling black beads
As pyrotechnics splattered on the ceiling
And the light show kept stirring
The ricochet of the quietude
In a detrimental ripple
Paving all frothing waves
To obliterate the emerging
Isthmus of sequestered tentacles
And the black beads wondered
Wandering far off sobriety
Entangled with a lethal envy
Upon the jocund gypsies
Excluding such complacence,
What is it searing in their revelries
That is louder than my carousing silence?
The fire of a poet manqué
Was quelled by the merriment where
Quietude was inscribed on the RSVP
Meanwhile, the living shadows
Fumbled on prismatic meadows
Where my words use to tinker
Now ensconced in the echoes of silence.
If I would ballast pensively
In a muted and pantomimic spiel
[...] Read more
poem by Norman Santos
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