Dwelling Place
Every night, I fumble to scavenge
My place among estranged acquaintances
And when deception sought for suicide
I will return to a haunted chamber
Inside my cold steely heart
Where the lofty and glacial gates
Loomed hostilely in bolted chains
And I would mount the escalating height
As inebriation descends from liver to soul
And the equipoise of time let down its velvet robe
Draping the horrendous vicissitude hovering my home
And the heralding thought that when I knock the door
It would either be a hammering holiday
On my parent's irrational loathe
Or the crispy echoes of the hollow quietude
In the stretch of a colossal living room,
Darting through a number of quarters
That the eyes can both perceive and not
I'll shake the my fists and make believe
Then I'll get through with all the heedless pounding
And muse on the stairs spiraling up the languid attic
Where the ghosts were aloofly haunting,
And then the stairs skewing down to barren rooms
I'll take the descend to the refuge
Of my room in shades of green and of slumber
And as soon as we fondle our arms together
I will paste my scarce body into the cold tiles,
Pull a chimerical soap-dish form beneath the bed
Where I stack the lambasted butts of cigarettes
And the ashes of the squandered boy
Who lit a celebratory stick for a triumphant
Escape in the walls of his home.
For his home is in the clutters on the floor,
And the stains on the mint green walls,
For they are the things that he doesn't know
But the things he understands;
For here I know the things that I do not understand
Like the rasp of the soundless,
The sentience of the benumbed
The loneliness in the crowd,
The toppling resolutions,
The quietus in writing and the sketching of the unconscious,
The writing of quietus and the unconsciousness of sketching…
Perhaps, it was home from tangible to otherwise,
And sometimes, more often than not,
I like to leave my dwelling place
And stay inside the fringeless vault
Of my idea of a home.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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