I Forgot How To Do It Poem by Norman F. Santos

There’s a storm brewing,
And a moth in the ceiling
And there’s a man blatantly rusting
Encrusting with cobwebs, chipped and jagged
By the corner siphoned of salvation
No God to talk to, kneading for redemption
Talk to the man with a lion for a head
Or the colossal mandrill, sagacious king
No orphan nor dream, nothing could redeem
The crevasse that cleaved
Now, asunder. Now, leave.
Forlorn child, where should a soul reside?
No body too scarce,
When you rest beneath these scars
And live without breathing
Or breathe without living
The phantom vanished from the masquerade
What haunts with the undertow?
Morsels of bereavement
Will lacerate the lungs in billows
Asphyxiate in gallows
Breathe, synthetic. Breathe, asthenic.
Then take a pen and a palette
For a heart and soul instead
Steadfast your quavering hands
Vehement to spin the roulette
Sturdy as those of the clock
Or the ship bludgeoning by the dock
Let it succumb all you cannot swallow
When you forgot how to do it,
There’s another piece of bliss
Perhaps you can borrow
Quit, all too narrow. Quit, perhaps tomorrow.