Echoes Of The Silence Poem by Norman F. Santos

The black squirming beads
Confine the groveling quietus
Beneath the strands of my canopy
And it cradles a somnolence
Farce, vis-à-vis the despondence
Of the elusive spangling ivories
Amidst the sound of desolation

I can hear the echoes fringe
The quiescent of a hiatus
Of the shriveling breaths
Of my lost secluded island
Where the sun never mount
Thus, never shrink out
From the dearth of my toppling horizon

Effervescent carols linger and slither
Suffocating the mistral atmosphere
Reckoning the blaring tapestry
Albeit, the frescoes dispensed
The myriad of gaiety’s absence
Mantled by the echoes of silence
Of the rattling black beads

As pyrotechnics splattered on the ceiling
And the light show kept stirring
The ricochet of the quietude
In a detrimental ripple
Paving all frothing waves
To obliterate the emerging
Isthmus of sequestered tentacles

And the black beads wondered
Wandering far off sobriety
Entangled with a lethal envy
Upon the jocund gypsies
Excluding such complacence,
What is it searing in their revelries
That is louder than my carousing silence?

The fire of a poet manqué
Was quelled by the merriment where
Quietude was inscribed on the RSVP
Meanwhile, the living shadows
Fumbled on prismatic meadows
Where my words use to tinker
Now ensconced in the echoes of silence.

If I would ballast pensively
In a muted and pantomimic spiel
With or without you or me
There will be a surfeit of abeyance
Where are you, temporal eternity?
My mouth is dry, the beads had died
I can still hear the echoes and its silence.

In a strident whimper
Of a vociferous tatterdemalion
The silence hallooed and coiled
In an echolalia of reiteration
And in the rebound, there I reside
I am the unheard vociferation
In the echoes of the silence.