Cataloguing Nights Poem by Norman F. Santos

Inside an impassable night for a diffident boy;
Juxtaposed the pillar of his bed he coiled
From watching the final grain hastily dissipate
Fore infinity resurged his room, his subterfuge vacate
Vigorously, he confounds with a luxuriant tongue
Painting visions, unknowing his heart was wrung
For he was a boy withholding utopian eyes
Vulnerable from lies and metaphysically cries
With every plot his nights would conspire
He held onto profanity and blindly cross the wire
As prayers depart his sagacious lips
Departing to escape and stain like thieves
With lethargic eyes he would acquaint to rile
Inside a night of feigned lies and sedative denials.
.
Inside another eve for a reticent boy;
He perched on the hourglass, his soul was cloyed
As he lit a cigarette and taught himself to smoke
And hoped that the rings would seize the thoughts to choke
So the ethereal train would leave his downtrodden bed
But it marauded his wounded chest instead
With gasping breaths, he dragged a joint for help
Whilst the smoke abandon with an ounce of himself
The defiled body would rise like a swelling river
From the cold tiles; a mocking mirror
Of a boy with tales of hope and lamentations
And it would dawn on him, this is an initiation
Towards endless nights of dreadful soliloquy
An immense struggle beneath a rubber tree
.
Inside an epicurean night for a reclusive man;
Nibbling on a deadlock scheme, my, isn’t it fun?
As he sunk himself beneath these ignoble sheets
And made a valley from a cigarette kiss
He sated himself with shabby fantasies and amities
From prattling pills of Mescaline and its severities
The endeavor banished all ghastly thoughts
But stirred sensations analogous to a garrote
Emotions riveted at the bosom of his soul
Swelling, bursting, decaying inside a hole
Inside that night, the rain poured harder
As he regressed in his bed of deep somber
“Nothing ever left, for nothing really came.”
And he surmised; “I missed the kick-off of the game.”
.
Inside a wan evening for a despondent soul;
He sulk into blasé still trying to cajole
For questions, for answers, for riddles of impasse
Induced with potions, sullied in the fray
The thoughts had left, the emotions depleted
Now he is benumbed as emptiness gyrated
An empty repose is not an auspicious replacement
He stifled, he stiffened, he sought for help
He cried and wailed and threw everything on his shelf
His drab eyes learned to utter a prayer again
His aching wounds, forebode subsistence, colorized and darkened
But will anyone penetrate his endless nights of gloom?
And will anyone care to find a corpse in his room?