Darrel
On his shoulder
are the weight of his struggles,
his prostrate grief,
and esoteric quintessence;
the impending doom
that defeat riveted
On his hands
are burns from cigarettes,
an empty bottle
and everything else
lifeless and afraid
On his eyes
are shut persiennes
veiling the shadows that
love has casted
and its silver web
of emptiness
On his brittle bones
shivers the abhorrence
for ephemeral amities
and its affinity
which is the love
for weak beacons leaning
on tired sunsets
He traversed skylines
like arrows assailed
to the stygian flames
and to get out of his track
is a distraction from
the eternal malaise
that he is trying to chase
and escape all the same
He counted little deaths
and little details -
like felled petals,
and lambent sighs;
like the sequins
and tears evocated
Darrel was not his name,
because his existence
is but a fallen grain
in the hour glass -
he was jeopardized
a beau not,
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poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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