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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=471227" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Dwelling Place</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Every night, I fumble to scavenge<br>My place among estranged acquaintances<br>And when deception sought for suicide<br>I will return to a haunted chamber<br>Inside my cold steely heart<br>Where the lofty and glacial gates<br>Loomed hostilely in bolted chains<br>And I would mount the escalating height<br>As inebriation descends from liver to soul<br>And the equipoise of time let down its velvet robe<br>Draping the horrendous vicissitude hovering my home<br>And the heralding thought that when I knock the door<br>It would either be a hammering holiday <br>On my parent's irrational loathe<br>Or the crispy echoes of the hollow quietude<br>In the stretch of a colossal living room, <br>Darting through a number of quarters<br>That the eyes can both perceive and not<br>I'll shake the my fists and make believe<br>Then I'll get through with all the heedless pounding<br>And muse on the stairs spiraling up the languid attic<br>Where the ghosts were aloofly haunting, <br>And then the stairs skewing down to barren rooms<br>I'll take the descend to the refuge<br>Of my room in shades of green and of slumber<br>And as soon as we fondle our arms together<br>I will paste my scarce body into the cold tiles, <br>Pull a chimerical soap-dish form beneath the bed<br>Where I stack the lambasted butts of cigarettes<br>And the ashes of the squandered boy<br>Who lit a celebratory stick for a triumphant<br>Escape in the walls of his home.<br>For his home is in the clutters on the floor, <br>And the stains on the mint green walls, <br>For they are the things that he doesn't know<br>But the things he understands; <br>For here I know the things that I do not understand<br>Like the rasp of the soundless, <br>The sentience of the benumbed<br>The loneliness in the crowd, <br>The toppling resolutions, <br>The quietus in writing and the sketching of the unconscious, <br>The writing of quietus and the unconsciousness of sketching… <br>Perhaps, it was home from tangible to otherwise, <br>And sometimes, more often than not, <br>I like to leave my dwelling place<br>And stay inside the fringeless vault<br>Of my idea of a home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Norman+Santos">Norman Santos</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=471227" data-title="Dwelling Place de Norman Santos" data-description="Every night, I fumble to scavenge
My place among estranged acquaintances
And when deception sought for suicide
I will return to a haunted chamber
Inside my cold steely heart
Where the lofty and glacial gates
Loomed hostilely in bolted chains
And I..."></div>
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