For Whom The Bell Tolls
I heard a bell bellow
but I didn't find its tower
The echolalia coiled eternally
in distraught from insularity
and the mist listened
For whom the bell tolls
when the sun had set for tomorrow
before it can rise today?
Because your lissome hands
grew brass, writhed cold
Your sapphire stares
rived amongst stones
Your search lights marauded
and probed my wasteland
looking for holes behind
the threadbare tapestry
Your sapient picaresque
finally found its tragedy
and your sunshine-soused hands
is soldered to the brittle bones
Look at you, haplessly caught
in your own tangled web
whilst I lambently watch you
like a wistful stone-fleshed gargoyle
as you weave familiar ripples
born by the deluging struggles
that I managed to survive
Look at how your quasars
excoriate wounds and scars
and how the effluence of their screams
fecundates your chandeliers
ready to burst and become
the cul-de-sac of your galaxy
Look at how you morph
into the molts of my old shadows
and my empathy is with
your obdurate struggling
Can you still remember where
the suppuration of the empty bells sleep
and dream of abundant morrows?
My sun crawled up lazily
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poem by Norman Santos
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