Clock and Compass
Ardent arms that never dare halt
The flailing gestures in a dawdling waltz.
Clock and Compass, and the solitude curse
That leashed their hands onto their hearse,
Whilst chasing the tails of tales of vicissitude
The blasé endeavor, the blithe ineptitude
Of the labyrinthine revelry, where they frolic
And tinker, the macabre in the melody is chronic.
"Clock, in your hands that fumble to rock
An infant to ripen in a tale of another deadlock
Take me in a cavalcade to the shards of your ocean
Jarred in your veins, with tides in constant ashen-
Currents, and I shall fumble to catch your waves
Immortal cradles in a flimsy steady pace
In your flannel tux and silver scaffolds
Tell me what to consume, tell what to hold."
"Compass, lead me down into your darkness
Into your clandestine garden, into your nest
And I will seize your tired moribund arms
Lithe arms of sentries, broken arms of tramps
You're a faceless void, a nameless face
With gilded frames and such liquid lace
In an orchid gown that extends too far
To guide my trail like the northern star."
"Clock, you are surmised to a predetermined sequence
An extensive pre-morbid saga in feigned eloquence
That matured every epoch, every decade, and every second
Baneful with the repletion of a wish to depart and abscond
Let me caress your arms, rigid and enfeebled arms
That caught every instance but never possessed charms
To hex all that saunters past these circlet roads
And touch your gallant frames weary from its loads."
"Compass, your fate is callously casted
To obliterate your path left encrusted
With hopes in tombs and scornful chances
And nary praying arms, but throbbing lances.
I will hold your impositions, with hands oblivious
With its erratic directions I would gladly reduce
Myself, and my own coerced path will vacillate
To induce pain, for pain is life and it will regulate."
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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