The Making of a Prince I: I Named Her Sybella
A strident silence speared
Through a long famished alley,
A turgid hymn of air swooned
Reeking of sapid quandaries,
That was when I caught her breath
Asphyxiating from the cacophony
That her pensive hands whittled
In a callow toil to defy
The sequester of the sea and sky;
Vying to taut a prissy wry
The verve in her eyes, unseeing
The veins in her hands, clogged
The plethora of colors in her skin
Thaws in a concoction—a melancholia
She knelt in a prayer, weeping
Before adamant caryatids, fringing
Her horizon, it was hers,
I windwalked and trespassed
Her veil of secrecy, profoundly
Bore her my eyes, empathically
I desire to tell her of bliss—
How it lingers around and about
For those who desire it, but
I saw the cairn and candles
She tussled and endeavored:
A grave for all her hopes,
And for all my words, hushed
I picked her up like a blossom
Drifted from her garden and
I knew I know not to speak
To tell her that I know her
For her eyes was a sleeping mirror
And it shines and lust and sheen
I knew her, I knew her
And I named her after her:
"Sybella, The Lady of Secrets"
One of my elusive triumphs
For I have conquered
A vacuous space
Of a gilded heart.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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