The Winter Of The Sun
Glacial sighs mantled the breaking light
in a soft dislmning abrasion
Like whispers lifted from the frost
that sheathed the slumbering sun
behind the solace of our sequence
and tedium of our shenanigans,
but the austere silence it brought
had drifted with a lack of euphony
and calm for macabre had conquered
the prying eyes and mangled with
the atrocious affliction brought
by the premature winter of the sun
The ice sheets that I meander started
to shatter and thaw, but the kingly fire ball
remained suspended on his veracious
gesture of absence, his superfluous fingers
pointed with a jeopardy through
the unlocked and opened barricades
where the black embers futilely honed
its red eyes like devils lurking inside
the curtains, and the veil was ripped
to divulge what weeps soundlessly
behind the tatterdemalion tapestry
There was nothing but a lifeless smoke
climbing the svelte ladders of time,
Smoke that seethes with anguish and
wrecks and lusts for the shallow heaven
that the cinders spat and denied;
Smoke from incinerated hands -
hands that wrought words feigning valor,
hands that rocked its own trembling cradle,
hands that grew iron from caliginosity,
hands that are empty and flimsy
where everything sifted like a formless wind
indifferently passing through the windmills,
hands that can only quell the warmth
of the sun when it tries to break from
the winter inside its eternal frame.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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