The Days of the Sun
A spill of crimson engulfs the lusty fringing line
Whilst cobalt and mauve bicker to intertwine
And saturate in a gelid-steely hue to define
The girth and skin of the poignant horizon
As the gloaming dawn close to topple the occasion
How many colors does the dusk possess?
And why these few tarry on my firmament?
The plethora of sunsets I obstinately watched
Cannot descry what destitution beguiles
So I count and gaze, on an on, without a mind
A phalanx can beckon the exodus in His corolla,
Obstruct the panorama and anticipate the doom
As it esplanade through a month of setting suns
Futilely for the sunrise yonder its tawny cape
That never comes around, never fixes me bound
Of His elegiac maladroit songs by crickets and cicadas
Somnolent brewed to regurgitate the pensive calculations
For many a sunset only undulates to extend and never ascend
Is solitarily reckoned with a masquerade of rues and whines
As the light of hope and significance fell with the shade casted
In the immense parliament of the looming shadows
I trample vociferously disowned by my own days
And the feigned elation held the sunsets at bay
And, in a fencing veneer, stockpiled are the days to follow
For the adamant raiment of sedative bliss remained
Without my vicious skies, who then am I?
A ray of melancholia sifts through interpolating clouds
Struggling to expose its soigné flesh of albino
Into the torpor of my bleared yet thriving iron eyes
He breathed again, soldering, for a myriad of tomorrows
Emancipated from the mendacious lulls of a lunatic enchant
My heaving toes sauntered back His sorrowful malingering
In a day of dance of building shades, superfluous dips into the sea,
A thousand sheets of stripped sincerity and of risqué vulnerability,
Scull again, days of the sun! Here comes again the siphoned man!
And the moribund croon of the clock spun again
Contriving a forbidden tryst like a foreboding roulette
Pirouetting fate; pointing daggers and rolling heads
A montage in vapors of cold and sighs of incisive death
Mantled in familiar hues; Here comes his comrade gloom!
Back underneath my sky, his old barren dominion
Where sunsets give birth to another painstakingly
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poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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