Fostering The Desperation Poem by Norman F. Santos

A plenitude of ten days can cradle the impasse
And the drudgery of the smothering blasé
For in the times where the jocund days revel
Without sparing a single seat despite your grovels,
Not even the delusive carousing inside your head
Can bend the bleak defeat heaving a lynching thread,
You are bound to incarcerate the pangs of jealousy
And subsist in a burrow on the crust of mendacity

A surfeit of abeyance is a bed of black tulips
Where death silently coils entangling in diminutive wisps
How long can you endure breathing the stygian gale?
How long can you keep your vessel from shattering in stale
Fragments of desperation? And swallow the swords that halt
Your shrouding verve or demise; your congealed surreptitious art
Of feigned exuberance and complacent retorts
To the vehement proposal of trepidation’s mellifluous courts

Another futile endeavor to foster the desperation in a poetry
Is but another escalation of the devastated treaty
Flustered by the weakened barricades
I can see a snake hissing for a charade
On my heels, swiveling my pace in distraught
And corrupting the plaque from the wars I had fought
I can smite the devil, but what good will it be?
Can it fend the lacquer fangs of this atrocious veracity?