Times I Write
Five A.M. snooped coyly
In my harried sleeplessness
Between the curtains of the equipoise
Of the red and dying eve
And the vim of early dawn
Rapping the emollient shuddering
Until everything synergized
Into a tepid pace,
And in this times
I am most alive
Growing more eyes
And superfluous hands
And my tentacles would permit me
To wander far-off,
Maybe to far-off
That I reached the enemy lines
Ticking the sleeping mines
And fulminating the wiles
Expulsing all of me
Into the bleak certitude
Of loneliness.
In the salient silence
Of the hiatus
I have been to several houses;
Of a family masticating
Each other's laments,
Of lovers quaffing
Their virulent endearments,
Of an ode's wardrobe
Naked in opalescent flesh
And there is but the ashen
Skin of loneliness,
And of friends sleeping
In the bed of complacence
Unknowing of
The wandering anxiousness.
I have been a fathom
Deeper than the cesspool
In my stygian eyes
That I had impertinently
Wished to dismember
The clock's petulant arms,
Though it in spite
Of the carnage
It would never sojourn
And settle with our pace;
Another corruption.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

No comments until now.