Machine Gun

Let me speak with tongues of loathe,
Let me bawl without strangling hopes,
Let me share my inconsistencies, and
Let me finally, bleed for me.

The putrid illness spilled into the bland sky
And the days sculled only to plummet down
Because the sun was ousted from these veins
And only darkness can linger into these alleyways
Now, watch me jump into my decay whilst you gyrate
With your blind lust and your gilded patina and rusts
This is the last time I would ever submit
Into the cajoles of your ulcer and fever.

Up until these dead days, I am inveigled to bleed out
The irony that shuts out, now hark: when did you ever care
About the toppling of the quartz? I know a dark limbo
Where the thoughts juggle, I found a parcel of vision,
Where your lonely sea of iridescence flailed from
Her ever pristine undulations, and it provokes you
To the machine gun's hollowed chamber.

You were only a bullet to your own gun.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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