Underneath The Sycamore
The glacial mist shrouding the eve
Cradles the redolence of your reveries
Prematurely ripen from a hungry vie
To keep time at bay and life a chance
In your statuesque grace blooms
A dream in the day, a comfort to lay
And we were so close in a distant way
But for the jeopardy of truth and cliché
This transatlanticism is for your decay
Every now and then as time tramples
When cicatrix sighs and sunlight halts
I get so alone, flat and hollow,
Despite of the truancies, I'm still amidst
The enthralls of the moon's harlequinade
And its servile and vivid orbs at cay
I would be lured to saunter back
Our winding roads and jagged paths
And halt beneath the sycamore
Where we met clad with liminalities
And donned by the amities
That afflicts in a trifling volley,
Then I have neglected to see
The malignance of your entanglement
In the cobwebbed branches
With all the sojourned predicaments
You were a craftsman unconsciously
Look at what you have had on me
In its shade, there is company
Distracting me from the mendacity
Of the moon's phosphorescent bloom
And sating my voraciousness eagerly
With double-edged memories
In the lovely silver boughs are the blossoms
Photographs painted in crimson and purple hues
With farcical smiles verily enraptured
Now pierce in an esoteric puncture
With its thorns concealed in comely sedation—
Cancer strikes like a serpent without a hiss
A blitzkrieg of another death's kiss;
And the epistles and riddling tales
Passed onto each other's escritoire
Linger here in the leaves rustling
With the secrets buried in the scripts
And the traces of evasive glacial rivulets
But then you have found the clandestine door
Clasped inside the hallowed burl
And key slumbering on the floor
And now you are one of them:
[...] Read more
poem by Norman Santos
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