Drowning The Sea Poem by Norman F. Santos

My walls shudder and the persiennes rustled
Whispering secrets to each other
And tingling my curiosity
To open the portmanteaux
Where I have stashed the tides
With surges I cannot defeat
But I would not let myself deplete
Into the seductions of the ocean
And her airborne secrets

Your tides, they were pristine and feral
And I had pleasured myself
From the delusive consoles
Catching it in my palms
Like a paramour’s hand
In spite of the saltiness of your fingers
That would detour from my frantic clasp
Filleting my hopes, every time
Until I gladly drown with all that I have
In your sympathy
That I have taken erroneously
Everything sank

I am dead beaten and sea-sick
With the drifting consoles
Of the voracious sea
Because at these times
Where the gears of the clock collapses
And does not seize each other
I am drawn to reckon
And probe for honesty
In the vertigo of surrender
And I grew sterner by the helm
Taking the mistral gale
As an endless beating
With the mistral blades
Of different shades

Like tonight, for instance
The cordial yuletide hue
Is ballasted by my veracity
As another vacant holiday
In a vacant banquet
Of vacant platters
Indeed, this is how I grew sterner;
Surging the breaking waves
With a sea-sick stomach

An overwhelming surf
Over the slopes of skepticism
Until the undulation settles
And the sea drowns
Into a numbed state and
The waves and the gusts
Would be driven back to the shore
And I shall attend
The pangs of a vacant holiday
And that, I do prefer,
For it is not inflicted
By my own flimsy hands
And I would not be shaken
By the whispers and the rustles
Inside the bolted portmanteaux.