Saturnalia
He picked up his cigarette
With his nimble hands
And dropped his malaise
On his nimbus smile
He moored his trepidation
Amidst looming trees
Sated with voraciousness
Gaunt as his mortality
They tread a rivulet
Of agog prancing fire
And picked up his ashes
In his sinewy veins
And fanned his qualms
In a tacit realm
He plucked out a thorn
Riveted in his rib cage
And stomped on the fertility
Of the garden in his hands
Unsullied but squalid
Lanterns in blossom
While its tangled roots finagled
With the cajoles of the heart
The saturnine seethes of flame
Tingled the oceanic eyes
And he picked up his glass
And drank its serrations
He swathed his bleeding tongue
With a rasping sedation
He picked up the moon
Fallen from the night
He cried for its unrivaled doom
And the mirroring blight
He plied the gossamer
And the desiccation of the sea
But he never grew pale
So he picked up a star
To hung a chandelier
And flicked on the light
Of a transient thrill
Denying oblivion's shrill
In a ravine of coiled lynches
He picked up himself
And squandered it away
And there was no fear
Just a stark demise
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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