Norman F. Santos

Rookie - 497 Points (Nov.19,1990 / Philippines)

Void And Untitled - Poem by Norman F. Santos

Asleep from November ten to eleven,
I dreamt of being alive.
A sunset can extend as far as eternity without you
Your absence in your presence, your presence in your absence
The transatlantic distance; one heartbeat away
So I faded behind your taciturn pace, your beautiful face
And I watch you grew brighter like an imploding sun
Garish light, I know this is but a guise
Egoistic barricade, I know this is how you sully yourself
So I gave up with your game
You know my faith, why test?
You never gain, we never gain, why protest?
And I found a lonely soul in a glass receptacle
He had the eyes of a child and I felt found
We gulped and quaffed faster than your pacing steps
In my endeavor to find euphoria, I stumbled
And threw it up on my sleeves, ‘twas goddamn pungent!
But then he told me that it’s okay
And I knew it was, for it was incomparable to our pains
I turned everything over and gave myself once more
This time to a boy who doesn’t care to be my brother
A best friend, rather, with an unsolicited invitation
And he gave himself away
So, I let it all slip off, with my voice to crack
And the tears to hit the kirtle
I fumbled but vindication was in a mirror
In front of me; Windsor.
I have no home, I’m a wayward
And decided to struggle with the night
To find myself, my place, a place
And he vied for it
I felt poignancy creeping treacherously
I don’t want pity, but I can spare it for this infinity
Like an orphan, a stranger in their realms
His kin spared a night for acceptance.
We watched the reel came to life; 500 days of summer
And repulse, and curse, and sully ourselves to die
We were watching colder fountains
Ourselves in its reflection and our summers.
I struggled for a piece of calm
As he lay there pensively asleep
And you, you loom over me
Forgive me, for I don’t have guts
Spare me, for I don’t want guilt
I had to tell you for you had taught me
What and how a lion’s ought to be.
I talked to your image pinned in the ceiling
I’ve told you how I recovered from a memory
And, may be, those words are still mine
And as how you’ve taught me, I’ve told you;
That I love you and I will do
Then you grabbed me by my crusting arms
And I hauled my hefty duffel bag
My shoulders ached and colorized with bruise
I’ve dared asked; where to?
And you said without turning back,
Somewhere where we can run.
Before my shoulders died, they lived to find
An ebullient lantern festival
You held one in your hand
And I gauchely placed my sweaty palms beneath yours
I spoke; Let’s watch it burn brighter and brighter
And hotter and hotter, and swell with hope
But it will be beautiful, awfully beautiful
That it will take flight and it will be grand
In the night sky before it fades away
But we would know, it will be grand.
A cold rivulet tricked down my bloodshot eyes
To wake up in front of my breakfast;
A spoonful of; the more things seem to change
The more they stay the same,
A platter of; too close but far away,
A banquet of; one day, I can say your name again.
Autumn, false-hope, false vindication;

Topic(s) of this poem: confessional

Poet's Notes about The Poem

Confessional poetry.
For W and S.
Circa 2011 - Experimental poetry.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, December 10, 2015

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