3: To Dusts

The phantasamagoria plummeted
From wearily perching on my heart
Hurtling into abeyance
Without reckoning a single pound
Nor pulsing a single breath
But farcically seeping out crystals
Gaudy luster that had been elusive
In the poignant poverty of the pits
What had you done to me?

This torsion for withdrawing
The enthralling stardust on my veins
Is like eviscerating every breath,
Shoving every forest burned
Back into the charred soil
To try and live again
To try and fail again
For the stars blinded me
And I had submitted everything

Pilfer my words, my clandestine places,
My life, my name, my tragic slapsticks,
They are not mine
They belong to your galaxies
And nary a string
In my glacial eyes

And the stars shivered
Shrugging of crumbs
Into my shoulders
I waved a trifle
And dusts were born.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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