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Tails of Bliss

The truculent sensation of auspicious sedation in a puncturing thrill
Is as evasive as the clear vesper skies flooded with constellations
Bliss, I calculate like the fragment of aeons spewed by the clock
With hands dancing into the euphonious crooning of decadence;
Bliss, I forfeit to fringe you esoteric definition in a mooring point
But I wish to enter your anteroom and never leave, anchored in your skin,
And when I climb and crawl in the craters and crevasses you hollowed in
Your plasmatic visage my flimsy hands and mind still can never grasp
Who you are; Are you the same for everyone? How do I claim you
And fill the depression in your mattress? Or do you claim me and shatter
The impassable ashen moonbeam of my every night? If then, come, now.
In the awning of this protracted wondering nurtured by the city's malingering,
I wonder if I will ever touch you, the wisp of your tail that had grazed me once
The whiff that was not recounted by any noble man, the pleasure that had
Established a sagacious demand for cynicism's arduous flagrance,
In the patina of bleeding pain I tasted of your poison making me grovel
For the oblivious thrill, the ecstatic bereavement of feel, the orgasmic static in the ears,
In this world of blind alleys where death walks with garrulous snores of the shadows
I yearned for your faceless name, futilely aborting the lies riveted in hoping.
The harsh gale of levanter had whispered a clout in my ears; a clandestine item
A map to your lair, where you slumber coiled around your lustrous virgin hair
Your place, a castle within reach made of frangible bricks from the dim corners
Cobwebbed with fear and secluded thoughts, your nest is in my corpuscles
In its warmth and passionate hue, simply put into words of mirth
You are a lever ensconced in the ribs and only I can pull you out
To transpire personified, either in the illusion of altered perspectives
Or the hapless hummingbird-chance in erecting your lofty pillars
Into the damped soil where everything sank with the void and hollow
Yes, reality, the dour malady of having you unfold into the corporeal
Land of the breathing tombs is already a painted picture in abstraction
Bliss, have you visited the strangled heads dangling for your platform?
The lifeless eyes darting into the void horizon, grasping for air?
Your tail is a trail of streams that had ran in quest to find you
Or in the demise of finding your ephemeral plane, cold and ashamed
Are these streams lacerating the gulfs and barricades, cold and ashamed
I am for these streams that had engulfed your boiling core
Your tails, as elusive as the sating of questions, wounds and hunger
The yarns taut in the trample for every interior entropy
Bliss, your illusion was enough to keep me here
Wondering about the pristine pyre of Hades.

poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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