Penultimate Clout

The hands of heaven
constantly incinerates
and hones violence,
but I fear no more,
for I rival no more

The dog before the door
forebodes a peril
that can only blossom
the clandestine desire
to percolate the lusty things
veiled in dark sheens

Where does the flock
of birds fly? And what
sent them in flight?

I knocked on the door
and the call echoed through
The sky crumpled and
celestial stones mangled
instigating an azure flame
behind its montage

The hound jumped
unsheathed its fangs in defense
and snide in the air
but there is no barricade
that can decline alliance
for in the gnarled viscera
hides the faintly embers
of his weakness
waiting for a hand
to reach to his succor

I remain unshaken
by the beatings of holocaust
because the climate asleep
inside the brittle bones
is worse than the verisimilitude
of a million shadow

But why do these birds
resumes their departure?
Would do sun never dock again
upon this desolate island?

The fire is quelled
the embers lay without a pulse
when the hands climbed down
and a hope dawned

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