Norman F. Santos Poems

A Goddess she was, skirting the town with her presence
Her lunatic glow clearly forebodes beams of liberation
An opaque light: a stark sublimation of sterile illumination
It struck his thin fringes as he had clandestinely wished
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At the bottom of a tarnished trench;
A pit of rejection, but a kingdom to most
An amorphous tyrant flagrantly confound
Of nefarious sorcery on every soul
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Embolden the soul with the virility
Found in no beasts, but in divinity
The prize bequeathed by Mnemosyne
The grandeurs and horrors to humanity
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In a moribund day reigned by an empathetic sun
Serendipity lingered amongst ghosts withholding scant
Fluid hands pale as the toppling films of the sun’s corona
Flimsy hands shackled in a culvert; a deceitful supernova
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Pacing down a string of deceit
Strings that conceal attachments
I wonder how tangled I weave
Sunken deep in this resentment
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Wide open sea, bludgeon my grand flee
To where the beast would sing to me
Debonairly and treacherously the riddle
That shrinks one mind to gamble and fiddle
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As I stand before you the picture gets clearer;
Clear as the dermis of the sun perching aloft
The hands of clock would fritter away
Your incinerating flame would freeze
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There’s a storm brewing,
And a moth in the ceiling
And there’s a man blatantly rusting
Encrusting with cobwebs, chipped and jagged
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Dangling by the ceiling these moths
Such lackluster but can never abort
Eternity that these starlights behold
Let it go, take flight, let it all unfold
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When the crimson corona anchored itself flimsily
On the gnashing teeth of the chipped horizon and duly
Propose a solemn banquet in the expanding firmament
For the nocturnal vagabonds flagellated by no retirement
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