Apathy In Your Fingernails Poem by Norman F. Santos

You may beguile the caravansary
With a stern yet imposed guise
Like a feral panther in repose
But you can never outrun
The ghosts that revolves
Around the teeming sun
That freezes her corona.
.
I had caught a foretaste of your eye,
It’s impassiveness, on the mirror
That thaws and mars the listening
Into a muted gloomy song
Of nonchalance and ennui
In stark silence, it spoke too much,
Of your grandmother’s wardrobe.
.
The wind propelled and throttled
And I perched by your shoulder
Wintrier than any fountain
And I saw you gag upon swallowing
The odium you had for the panorama
As you efface the amorous persona
And be one with your dilemmas
.
The bright sun could only remind me
Of your balmy scent that stifles
My tunnels and my chambers
For it reek to erect a gravestone
For a death you begrudgingly suffered
And how compulsory the satisfaction
Is there to achieve an ephemeral sedation
.
I am a witness of catastrophic nights
Where you tossed, turned, obliterated,
As you loathe the skin you wore
And the scars that ran frolicking along it
In the velvet of the night’s cape
I find your phosphorescent excruciation
As you tried to scrape out the blasé
Apathy in your fingernails.