I Am A Multitude
I stand underneath the white light
and it casted a myriad of shadows
from the blasé holding me together:
who am I amongst these multitude?
And if I found out whom, where should I go
to brave and smite all these incertitudes?
Ennui sits on my stomach with a weight
of a royalty commanding my veins
to shut and it pilfers every gilded sheen
that excites my slumbering faith -
and this king I spoke off, he rules
like a tyrrant over my realms
because he is my supressed reflection
with an army of arrogant derision
A jester paints his face with a grin
that beckons and pulls hearty strings
and everyone will look at him with
pleasure of comic disbelief: why would he
make a flamboyant blackhole of bane
out of himself just to be one of the pieces
of the jigsaw puzzle trying to fit together?
I wish I could solve my own qualms
and rid myself of this harlequin
A man stands amidst these predicaments
with a mistral air of nonchalance
and his neutrality is too austere
that his sinewy flesh had grown hard
like a deadman stone reckoning the memories
of a man once amongst the living
suddenly banished out of reality
and in this stone my name is etched
withering without a flower on the grave
And the enamored bard who once
filled the moonlit skylines with
florid songs of saccharine lies
that the populace fancied to believe
that even his caprices and whims
out of the most pervasive disease
is called to be romantic; he who was
long reclused of his own banquet
still manifested himself to beckon me
of what these bruises constitute off
These superfluous entity is a chain
that moors the vessel from the bludgeons
of the sweet waves to ferry one home
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poem by Norman Santos
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