Emaciated Shadow
The sun ballasted searing aloft
And the emollient equinox escalated
The taunting ladder of schism
Upon the bequeathed garden
And, startled, everyone erected
Shifting legs and reloading guns
Never realizing the core of the brunt
Each one, feigning to be the only begotten son
Naked are the clandestine hedonists,
Clad in silk are the quaint sybarites,
And the ignorant martyrs were repelled
Into the flueret floors of the chasm
Where the light deemed barricaded
From reckoning the mantling shade
Meanwhile, the shadows were casted
Upon the vexed and judged ones
I mused on the cantankerous catastrophe
As the others transgressed in hubris
From the sycophancy of their shadows,
Dishabille in the mistral dearth of light,
Or perhaps, the dense veneer of darkness
To incarcerate the squalid phantoms
Inhospitably emancipated from the erratic
Flight of the aeon's shoddy orifice
While I pry and veer from side to side
Languidly probing for the stoic incarnation
Of my fears in the faceless silhouettes
The stoic scant of my void frame
Of two layers: stick and stone,
Was caught in the fangs of chagrin
Illuminating that I have but a single line;
A taut string of a shadow
Whilst the other's loom loftier
Than their own lambasted carcasses
Mine was a sole stroke of graze
Of Apollo's superfluous blade
My vessel was, perhaps, beleaguered
By an emancipation more profound
Than the ineptitude of the bassinet
Of carrions and amorphous crows
For I have been breathing whilst regurgitating
The gift, or curse, of Mnemosyne
And the iron mask may be scathed
But it was wedged in a profound depth
And the cicatrix is not dabbed with hoping
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poem by Norman Santos
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