Underneath The Rain, Reading Unwritten Poetries
In the dead of the rainy vesper
My veins shut and died
And the red rivers tranquilized
In a consummate incendiary
But my eyes continued to wander
Meeting the heaven's tear drops
And perpetuating in a cesspool
Where every ripple is a reckoning
Of what we have become
Drowning and gasping for air
But never really asphyxiating hope
I was a seed of premature death
An embryo yet to be born
Caught in the paroxysm of decay
But I was nurture to be a bud
My roots sprawled into the night
And my eaves of boughs and leaves
Sough to conquer you in my shade
From stymied, you blossomed me
And it is but rightful that tonight
The boughs and leaves topple
And crunch for your downpour,
And no one but you shall heave
My life clinging unto this sand
Because life and death
Is but a constant charade
The propinquity of bliss and pain
Is a precarious juxtaposition
And a transatlantic irony
And in this rendezvous
Of your inconsistency and insensitivity,
Of your outcries and stipulations,
And of your fugitive memories;
You are still the best of me
And you will be the righteous
Death of me
As I read our poetries that are
Still to be written past this squall
I understand that the gallows will not satiate
As long as I have rues and loathe
Thwarting my life and death
So I resign to peace, to sleep,
But please do not contend too hard
And ruin the end of it
Let us wind back to who we were—
Estranged friends in the darkness
Perforated by our own guns
[...] Read more
poem by Norman Santos
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