Norman F. Santos

Untainted bliss
Infinite ebullience
There are no words
To convey happiness
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Incongruous creeper of star crossed fate
Muted dreamer with a living to tolerate
Swanking too compensate the lack of luster
A sycophantic wish delivering a note of disaster
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Time is bound in a spell tongue-tied
Prance and wince like the ocean’s tide
And ebb back into the waterfront
At the time you’re eschewed most
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Juggling abortive bliss and ephemeral anguish
And discreetly dwelling by your pensive shadows
I started to grope for exoneration in a muffled wish
Only to find myself lacerating with greater sorrow
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There was a widow pianist
Who plays most pristinely
That would drag your feet
Into an emollient waltz
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Life is a great wide open sea
A vast ground for a wandering
Albeit, the compass notifies
The route you’re heading at
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Reel around the reflection
Deflecting an incarnation
That you denied or opted
I would never comprehend
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I watched you spin the tables
And reduce the forsaken fables
To an ostensible cacophony
And peel the enswathed naïveté
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I rouse up from a hefty bunt
Of hapless, sleepless dreaming
With a dehydration manifesting
All over my paper thin body
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I have lost my dexterous hands,
My impenetrable iron eyes,
And the harried sly of my smile,
For all superfluous shards of heaven
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As I lay in the resentment of serrated ryes
And beneath the tempest of impaling lances
That I stashed inside the scathing frame
Of my blatant harlequin repose;
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Perched upon the laggard headboard
Of the hostility in my brambly bed
With faint burns of my cigarettes
I had transformed into a vulturine—
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I, inebriated by a saccharine mulling of the elapsed
Melee amidst the clock’s sabers and now moored
By a pensive anchor that rattles with every mishaps
That whittles inside my ashen bones which chewed
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I can picture you
In the maladroit summer noon
That lingers to find a home
At the cradles of your mirthful veneer
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I can picture you
In the quietude of the library
Sauntering past the hulking shelves
With the grace and levity of a gypsy
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