Postcards
The pageantry of bliss -
I watched them in full light
that burns out the soft graze
Why, on a sunny August,
with passersby gilded by ebullience
do I have to be a wretched man?
The mirrors bend backwards
to my toppling complacence
and slivers uncouthly when
I unfurl my crooked teeth
in what should look like a smile
I counted the black birds
that perched on electric lines,
I counted the phone's dial tones,
but I cannot count the thorns
tossed upon my open sleep
that sent my dreams in an asylum
The night will always arrive
exacerbating a painful affliction
where I am enthused to write
and these words I tinker
will try to tickle the tassels
on the fringes of your blanket
And I didn't need to count
the diminutive tragedies
and benumbing dejections
for they are always abundant
guised as cold orbs assailed
into the inverted stygian ocean
When the clock falls into sequence
and quintessential pain engulfs
the root of my prime disease: love,
my words beget the stark naked frailty
and hoists an oppressive defense
in a hapless, puny onslaught
Where are those postcards
that lured me with sunshine?
Those kind words that were
as generic as a wanton smile?
Those postcards enveloped
in the treacherous skin of hope?
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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