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For Whom The Bell Tolls

I heard a bell bellow
but I didn't find its tower
The echolalia coiled eternally
in distraught from insularity
and the mist listened

For whom the bell tolls
when the sun had set for tomorrow
before it can rise today?

Because your lissome hands
grew brass, writhed cold
Your sapphire stares
rived amongst stones

Your search lights marauded
and probed my wasteland
looking for holes behind
the threadbare tapestry

Your sapient picaresque
finally found its tragedy
and your sunshine-soused hands
is soldered to the brittle bones

Look at you, haplessly caught
in your own tangled web
whilst I lambently watch you
like a wistful stone-fleshed gargoyle
as you weave familiar ripples
born by the deluging struggles
that I managed to survive

Look at how your quasars
excoriate wounds and scars
and how the effluence of their screams
fecundates your chandeliers
ready to burst and become
the cul-de-sac of your galaxy

Look at how you morph
into the molts of my old shadows
and my empathy is with
your obdurate struggling

Can you still remember where
the suppuration of the empty bells sleep
and dream of abundant morrows?

My sun crawled up lazily
I heard a tinkered bell
interpolating with abrasive tongues
willowing the old serpentine road

I saw a scathed hand,
its veins are blue and yellow,
pulling the bell's rope
like foisting punches into the air

I saw a wuthering moth
lambently stride to the flame
and heard a bell bellow
for its subtle elegy.

poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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