A Night in Their Attic

From this attic, the ceiling is
Almost kissing the floor
And the hapless heart is
No too far from a plethora of slumber
As I lay here, pensively wafting
In the smoldering rail tracks of oblivion
Darting to the final station: an abeyance

My sodden eyes swept the parameter
And it measured the expanse;
Everything was closer.
My emaciated chest
Can even rise to graze
The creamy phosphors of the ceiling
But there was a backdoor
Where everything slewed
Because in their attic
I was still
Bleak
Rolling in the gutters.

The clock didn't shifted
Its gears and triggered
A blacker serration of cinders
Plummeting with the pillars
Of my constitutions
Yet, I engulfed the humming air
Like I never tasted it
Because I wanted more life
And there could be one,
Stashed in these corners.

The moon didn't sprawled on her divan,
The sun didn't grind his maws,
And the crowd didn't fill
The maladroit patios,
But I was breathing
Between the floors
And the ceilings,
Restless from a revelry
And a lack of slumber
As how I wanted to be
Benumb from
Bereavement:
A life cloyed
By genial walls.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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