Gutters

It is one of those gray days
That you kneel for the downpour
To remind you of the cold pangs,
To probe for dark rooms where
Numbness hath not yet vacate
And amidst the hail of tears
You'd find yourself breathing,
Sobbing. Shuddering. Suffering.

The thunders were deaf
And muted by its paroxysm,
The lightning was blinded
By its own garish light,
The contemptuous lances fell
Concatenating the clouds
(That I tried to open
And immediately closed)
Into the thirsty earth
For a short-lived eternity
The most disparate angles
Formed a perfect circle

You let the gust beat you and
The tempest to whirl around you
Gripping you in its flimsy hands
And you watched the storm pass
Leaving the ruins in your heart

The sun shone bleakly and
Its superfluous innuendos gyrated
You found yourself besmirched
In the forlorn mud, wading futilely
Like an agog virtuoso haplessly
Reeling souvenirs from places
That are still to be traversed
Without an audience adept
For listening and musing

Drained, tired, lost from vindication
You fall and slither aimlessly
Into the coldest gutters.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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