Nothing Ever Fills
The sheets made of needle
That he used to dab off
A faucet of an ocean
And scarred the marred
Face of pallid darkness
Never unruffled to wake
In the noontime rain
Consuming January eight
And beneath the frothing
Waves of the supercilious
Blathering of the air
Quartz tongue scintillated
Ready to be washed ashore
In a malign gambling
That divulges a sleazy scene
Of undraping fabrics,
Caressing flesh,
And licking wounds
With salted tongues
But the taste of verdigris
Excoriated an aposiopesis
Of infelicity
And the January air
Grew thinner,
And the rain
Pummeled harder
With the zephyr
Chanting the veracity
Of mendaciloquence
That nothing
Ever fills.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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