Those Times
In these times
Where the sun recoiled
Into splintered allegories
I bask in the gouts of thoughts
In these gaunt path
Where sentiments
Slither like scales
In the very dermis
Of callowness
Behind the rainbow haze
The hurting is gravid
And the beauty is
A mystified lore
And In these times
Where the storms decline
The chance to disarray
The perfectly asinine
Threads of the loom
How intricate
The simplicity
Our taut ties
Woven in our tapestry
I saw what others can't
With purple eyes
And brambly diadems
I count and recount
And in these times
I count your heads
Like distant stars
Not a sweep of galaxy
Not milky, not plenty
But scattered points
That shudders and chills
As romantic as
The rapier
I recount how
The nebulas burst
But for now I count
The days that
Had caused it
To wan mordantly
From our skies
We used to be
The gears of the clock,
The svelte shadow
Of the sun dial;
But now we are
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poem by Norman Santos
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