Struggling For The Dead
From the dampen earth, where the tall grass blades
Never glistened with the svelte grazes of the moon
Slathered with petrichor and moonstruck iridescence
I crumpled the fragments of your soul, the humidity
Festooned with varmints' sinewy crawling tingles
And delinquent stifles from translucent genocide—
A caroming weeps of treason of the salted bones
And putrefied flesh, disintegrating the strangled soul.
Beguiled as a lachrymose hero in a phantom warfare
Hands flailing with the flutters of defeat and barricaded
Chance of redemption; a long dead barren ground unshaken
By any toiling cry and unsheathed swords, I shrill my bones
Just to lament a line in the harried specks of time;
The blame is in the warm crimson draping the hilt
In the pain reckoning life, erected like a statue
Apt for this eloquently written statuesque direst
Where you swam leisurely under the charlatan sun
Devouring the portrait envisaged in the lunatic ball
Gravid with the enthralls of perpetuity, it is a lie;
Now die, sink into the water and let the bubbles
Transpire in ephemeral truancy and remind me
Of the myriad of thousand deaths that gave me
Life, in the scars of your loins and in stones
Casted for a preempted necromancy.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
