Squalor Asylum
The abiding moon collected
my knowing surrenders
basking in the squalidness
of my black heart
and asked in a tone
as mellifluous as the angry tides:
Where does a crow fly?
The nights of scarlet
where the saturnalia
collapsed in a dark secret
and the butterflies perched
over a buried amber
was devoured in famish
as carnage spattered
with burnt colors
and moaning plumage
Watching the astray musings
on a riving remedy
into the pipe and in the fathoms
of the interiorized vault -
the stupor of dancing suns
circling the inverted dome
somersaulting behind the blear
and your reflection in the smoke
These debaucheries never called
for their own hiatus
as the forest met a fire
and breaks upon another
then decadently fold
in a banal slumber
When the grotesque show ended
everyone is alone
lured by the licorice sweating upon
the heat on their palms
and lost inside the mirrors
in the genocide inside
their roofless chasms
The crow perched
in the undulating braches
Chagrined, I stood in the bridge
juxtaposing squalor and morose
and in the verisimilitude
of security and delight
we sunder the propinquity
and burn our bridges
[...] Read more
poem by Norman Santos
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