Peace Is Not Yet

Whisk the rose-wine veiling fume
And the reedy rendezvous of the stars
But be cautious to exhume the gravid
But frail burden of the canopies
Underneath the marred chortles
And the playful lisping of the lips
These eyes sweep the dusts bashfully
And bleaches the tattoo of oppression
Cringing the sallow skin of somnolence—
The pawned peace in slumber;
To usurp the fissures of the greedy sand
Siphoning the path thoroughly
Until the stride bends in a spur
Of evocative and spurious reveries
And as hope grovel for hope
I shall contend with the manacles
And as pride devour pride
I shall rival with the angry tides
So I can forgive you,
So I can forgive myself,
And sleep may arrive the harbinger
Of peace and quietude
But until then, I remain astray
In this ravine inside myself
In this harried tug-of-war
Of cajoling phantoms
And their mourning deaths
Peace is not yet, sleep is not yet,
In the equinox of unreality.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!