To Blame The Air
This air does not only hold your fragrance
That I dangerously yearn for, like a candle light
In this pool of kerosene I soused my heart
It holds the petrichor, the semicide breaths,
A faint streak of puissant hope,
A sanguinary stench of a fray,
Tobacco scents and licorice,
A cry of war, a song of plea,
A hefty drapery of confusion;
For now I suck on these withered buds
Fixing a daunted lion poise
And breathing the oppressed air
To live in deaths, until
The atmosphere can cradle
The resurrection of what was
Blaming a shapeless enemy.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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