Thousand Wars In One Day Poem by Norman F. Santos

I rouse up from a hefty bunt
Of hapless, sleepless dreaming
With a dehydration manifesting
All over my paper thin body
Brought upon a short-lived revelry
That tinkered in last night’s episode
And the post blues are not leaving me
Along with the ethereal phantoms
That comes to life every zenith
Of the darkness of night time
Where the hands of the clock
Would steal a chance to touch
Each other, though like fireworks,
Ephemeral but orgasmic,
And as I raised to bow my head
Upon another meandering
In this labyrinthine garden
I shroud myself with valiance
Plastering a shattered vying
Last night’s rain failed to purge it
Though I was sodden, profoundly,
And sleep botched recuperation
Like a butcher instead of an angel
That would knead all my chafing
Into her pristine tranquility
And forgetting was not an option
Anymore, since I had feigned
To be stronger than repression
And I do not blame, or I cannot,
For I could only sink myself
As invisible fingers pressed
Upon the hole in my forehead
Brought upon by a stray bullet
The less comfortable pillow
Is sublimely inhospitable
And the hearth of this marble
Does not even have to withdraw
The second kind of loneliness
Defined and defied all that there is
In this day, after yesterday,
Before the vanished tomorrow
So there, in the battlefield
In front of a colossal mirror
In my mint green bedroom
I mused upon myself undraped
In the metaphorical sense
And I saw all these scars
Running in my abused frame
And it appeared, if not exactly, as if
‘Twas greater than my goblet
Yet, no one even cared
As I selflessly threw my safeguard
In the concoction of mud and blood
And held my the claymore higher
Without thinking about my grandeurs
Or the horrors, and it makes
Everything harder at its best
To vie dying selflessly and find
No worthy intention would
Appreciate and be available
To make a martyr or a hero
Who fought a thousand war
In one lonely Wednesday.