Bipolar Monday

It's ineptly Monday
And I had a swell night
Last Saturday
That adroitly stretched
Till the dawn of Sunday
With the jocund boys
Of the maladroit taverns
Though I've ruined
And maimed the effervescence
Of the last ticking hours
When I left the guffawing
For I can no longer
Hold my breathing
And the resilient wry
Wrinkled in a caterwaul
Of silence;
Bronchus' collapsing,
Ribs shrilling,
Eyes riddling
Honesty
And it felt worse
To drag a comrade
Into the dark sanguinary
Enigma of this warfare
When he had only
Claimed his deliverance
From his pathos
But it was the only
Light in this tunnel
And this light squirms
When I reveal my wounds
And he was, after all,
A comrade.

And it's only Monday
But the maelstrom of silence
And the latticing breaches
Sends obnoxious thoughts
To pace with me
In this sedentary road
And I shatter
Just to tell
Or to think of
What it is

It is the thing
Beneath the graves.
It is the thing beneath
All of our years
But it is
Here,
Malingering,
Crooning
In my ears
With the sound
Of knives lunging
In the flesh
Past the sternum,
Or the tacit gears
Of a smoldering whispering
To kiss my temples,
Or cars crashing
Into a body
Of lifeless
Tragedies.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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