A Perfect Day To Sail
Autumn hovered above the maladroit clouds
To descry our sanctum and astray meanders
And She shuddered, sprinkling a daze of gold
And sifted the ashes and bones of our deaths
In the sieves of Her trident are the remnants
Where my soul remained haplessly enthralled
And we watched it wan and die in a murder:
An auspicious castration of the gray curtains
In your resilient grin it flaunts a descant of scenes-
A bipolar thrill cleaves in me, a timorous ecstasy:
Eccentric and riveting, undulating and banefully riving.
The ghastly gossamer blooms saliently in the mire
Like a trickle of blood blossoming in the silver lake,
The ruse of vicissitude obfuscates a brand new shade
And the excoriation tautly smothers my inside
Drowning the myriad collections of pilfered sighs
But your picture was a pristine escalation, a stupor
Of purged exoneration, I loosen my heaving breath
Unlatched my tacit eyes to resign my contending
And permit the enigmatic lagoon tinker my incertitude
For it mirrors your mirth, and there sank my ululations
"The veneer of the lake, the psalms of the mimic sierras,
The soughing of the albino birches, the chanting of cicadas,
The touting of the gilded rays, the disgorging of the panorama,
The diadem of the sky; like an aubade of fata morgana"
You uttered them in a foreign voice that flabbergasts my storms
I cringed, lost in insecurity, musing on the ail of your panacea
And the whirlwind inside sculls heavier but the lake was mute
And resilient as you are, perhaps, I needed an ounce of fortitude-
A sliver of hope, a shard of faith: a chance to experience verve
In a sly jauntiness you seared like a blithe phalanx
And I vied for involution to reap my own wings
But I can only connive with the shoved ghosts
And commiserate with the aborted sorrows,
A desolate man juxtaposed a vindicated soul
In front of a fastidious lake that mirrors my demands,
I flinched but I cannot reveal, I broke but I cannot bleed
I interposed my share of inconsistency but I cannot feel
A desolate man—a warden, a prison; a perplex abolition
Is all that I can sap from the plenitude of sedations
"It is a good day for a stride, let's haul the boat"
You inveigled with the season's gaudy feint
"Of course, let's hurtle down the sleeping lake"
I superimposed an unrivaled acquiescence
But the fears marauding like tempest thunders
Sundered the soul from the quintessence of words
[...] Read more
poem by Norman Santos
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