In Owls Cry Poem by Norman F. Santos

When the crimson corona anchored itself flimsily
On the gnashing teeth of the chipped horizon and duly
Propose a solemn banquet in the expanding firmament
For the nocturnal vagabonds flagellated by no retirement
And premature dews transpired with wintry on its mouth,
Sunken and sullen eyes arrives to life in a quavering mould
Pregnant as the gaudy stale and dour of the moon hovering
The vast ineffable night and its stymied folks unfolding,
Sharper than the raging diamonds on the looming vault
But not as convivial, the hilarity, in these diamonds’ molt,
Robust than any thicket of forest these orbits can pierce
Ardent than any saint uttering a prayer on the feet of fear
Gaping beneath the anonymity in the pitch black view
The denizen of eternal hours of darkness and its beaux
The eyes of the imperceptible sentries of the night;
Invisible, iridescent, surreptitious, feared and surmised
Bleak in the ensemble of the smokescreen’s cape
Dexterous plumes no tempest of Boreas can scrape
Concealing the preying razor spears in a subterfuge
The emollient resilience, in the stark arcane further subdued
The winged sentinel fringed the realms of the night
In the calm meek, entirely hinged its head in blithe
The silence cringed and shriveled beneath profoundly
The observer perceives the affliction devoid of ambiguity
Darting with the alacrity and angst of bullets in every lieu
The realms of the hunter condensed with the bigger milieu
No screech, no hoot, how sober cry may stifle to convey
The specter’s etude asserting in the darkness, slumbering by day.