Pleas Of A Claymore Iii Poem by Norman F. Santos

Perhaps, the blight in all of us
Are denizens of a labyrinth
And are all engaged in a feudal mêlée
Amongst our ludicrous terrors
Etched in fleuron to our buried core;
Then we must all be the hero
Of our clandestine tailored tales
Regardless how omnibus the chronicles,
Or how rippling the wave of climax,
Or how dark the corners of the nadir,
It will narrate the atrocity
Of our dime a dozen breaths
Shallow or unfathomable,
In synergy with the heartbeat or not.

Sometimes, I do confabulate
With the cajoling omnipresence of hope
And submit to its scheme and proposition
That the struggling and the somnolent undertow
Makes a dogged-hungry hero,
And yonder this sedative restrain;
This famished comatose sleep
Of an oppressed hero or heroine
Solders one from rubbish slivers
Into a potent artillery of silvers
And the anguish veers and sprayed
Asphalt to the grave.

Do you bleed in your riling fists?
Or do you bleed in your asphyxiated hilt?

I, for one, was honed a claymore
And you can picture me
Glistening at the back of the hands
Of the yawning sunset
And erecting motionless
Into a small hill of the earth
Like a string to a buried puppet
Pleading, in its taut stance
To be stricken and undulate
Into the emollient hands
Of a puissant hero
With profound caverns in calluses
Of the yielding palms;
A raddled blade
Shrilling for the mellifluous
Hands of suicide.