Inevitable

When the stars held hands
And slow danced in the blear
Of the lazy purple clouds and
The mistral mantle of fog
Ominous without her moon
Comes creeping with a beckon
The disquietude expands
Into the room of the future
And the clock's hands swooned
Into each other like dead bodies
Toppling like walls of dominoes
Malingering for the final clout
And the consummate abeyance
And inside, I cringe with the void
And hollow bones, for I know not
Of the Promethean key they spoke of
I cannot resume my saunter
In the semantic of romaticism
Surmising a hopeful trepidation
Is but another dry stick thrown
Into the pyre soused in kerosene
Waiting for my back to lay
Tired from the gallows, tired to pray
Yet, enduring or not, I do dream
Of days pacified by chaste bliss
I dream of love as I dream of marigolds
That never have I touched nor seen
Or wonder if they have claws and thorns
To safeguard its frangible corona
I dream as I wake up asleep
From sleeping awake,
Of love, loving and in return
And whilst the lunatics peer
Into the gelid window pane
Traversing the lattices
To find the supple flood
Of their ashen moon's hair

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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