Strangled Capitulate
The brass moon flaccidly craned
Into the fringes of your rivers
And it scattered in the graceful waves
Touching the bosom of your caves
And the phosphors of the ripples betroths
My sullen vision, tired and wrought,
With the peril of aberrations
Of my own paddled surges
Auspiciously perishing the banks
With mouths open to intolerantly devour
The quintessence of your inflection
But then you are there, still,
Afloat in the infinitesimal streams
With fleuron fragrance of dispositions
Tapering the sealed lamentations
You are such a vision
Like a colorless lily
Held by a hand without face,
Kissed by lips without ardor,
Or a name without a visage
Immolating the jocund carousing,
Another caroming in the night of flustering
Mirror house of introspection
Reckon that with every sweep
Of your glances, or your shots
Small with a puissant tirade
I do reckon, what is
And what should never be—
Chasing its own tail
In every break and bend
Of every itching line
To not convey
The dithering desire
To flagrantly raise
The white flag
For the captivated
And the defeated.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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