Anatomy of Rue
The far flung tirade bellowed
into the gray reflection
and the resistance knelt
before its banquet of rue
but sleep was neglected
by the sullen eyes,
and tales were still narrated
into the frosted-glass
fearfully staring daggers
like a hysteric pistol
crying at point blank
knowing well that the only eyes
it can look into are the mirror's
The seasons passed hurriedly
but solace never came with
the showering yellow petals
and the breadth of trepidation
grew like a feral bush of ivies
and its thorns instilled
false-hopes in waiting futilely
for the sound of keys
unlocking my ajar doors
And here, in the decapitation
of my cloud's phantom-musing
I fell into a monastic languor -
limbs falling like yarns
untangled from the web of life
and in the wanton silence
I listened to the veracious absence
of pliant footsteps chasing
the setting of my red cooling star
It gave way for oscillating sequins
of the night to enthuse aeons
to go back to their weaving
of nostalgic poisons and
the monsoon beat like wings
escaping the hunter's net
Obdurately, the bridges held strong
even when the constitutions are burned,
I remember you as who you are
with a stark pang of grandiose
and remembering is no different
than breaking bones just
to prove that you are still alive
And as death sieges my garrison
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poem by Norman Santos
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