Quite Pollue

Asunder me from this plane of existence
Where ephemeral defeat coils down into
Perpetual scars that meanders deep
Rising every full moon regardless
Of the infinite susurrations of the harlot
Whiffs of bliss, evanescent whips
Dabbing the stings of death
Lead me down to the ethereal trance
Of perpetual demise, a consummate defeat
Withholding concrete bliss in the margins
Teetering out of keel, out to kill
This coarse grating feel

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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