Holes In The Tapestry

Like a maudlin brooding
yarns unwoven for the bones
exhumed from the cold stones
I confabulate with the night
and her ashen moiré locks
falling like strings unfettered
from her enigmatic bleakness
fingers interlacing, knotting
vying for the lost linkage
of the sequestered nocturnes

And there is nothing more alone
in rivaling loneliness
stuck in a crossroad of footsteps
chasing their tapping heels
and the slithering pavement
only coiled to a vertigo
of ribald blatancy unfolded
from the clutters of perchance

The firmament was palled
by the melanin of the vesper
and holes rifted like cuts
bleeding abashedly
The pallor of the stars
yearned for the incendiary
but the flame is gone
with all the misgivings
The starshine beaming
on the silvered sifting,
scouring upon the sieves
tilling the sanguinary land

The yarn ends here
its ends forever lost
in a labyrinthine knot
(not a lasso to return,
not a lace to wove more,
just a noose and a garrison
suspended in multitudes)
gripping the heart
asphyxiating the chances
there is not a chance for revival
because we are the architects -
we are our ruptures
and festooned raptures
and the blame for every
hole in our tapestry.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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