People (And Their Attritions)
To dream in the shade of gray
And wake with the sound of silence
The redolent ululations of the stagnant wind
Will freeze the airwaves with icicles
Sharper than the tongues of fire
People are people
Marred with a weak heart
That heeds no change for mercy
When stricken by godly hands;
Like a serpent, infuriated from the ground
By the prime predators with blood
Warm and red that he envied
With such amazed incongruity
Disturbed by the clamors beyond the pale
And the pertinacious exploitations
These harried hands wrought upon graves
Praying with the white flowers
Tossed without remorse
Withering with the brittle bones
I snide a fang for the manipulation
Ensconced in the hollow bones -
Haunted by the lost childhood
And the false-analogy of the future
People are people
And it will never reimburse
The lack of reasons
For all these conflagrating wounds
I hissed, I snickered,
At my own involution
To my life's suspension
And the pathos begged
Groveling for your poison
To all the lovely people
And your banquet of attrition:
Can you see the last bit of me
Hauling into the sun-drenched light
So you can see the profuse vexation
And the fear that the immense shadow casts?
In this turpitude I curled and folded
The weary scherzo of the heart
And like a mote suspended in the dusk
I descended, waning from your touch.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
