Skinwalker

The lurkers of the serpent sun
Subdue the breathing of the forest
In the ornate tousles and shuffles
Of the sifting madness from within
Where loneliness searches for company
Where silence yearned to be stifled
Breathing underwater, shunning hooks
Until the bubbles transpire
Frothing all the famished hunger
But there was no point of vantage
In a point of no return
Pirouetting in a subterfuge
Of self deception, extemporization
I engulf the coruscations
Of the whetting daggers in the atmosphere
Tattling tales of the northern downpour
Hearts glinting of gilded hands
Of compasses and clocks;
Far-fetched
All is far-fetched
Gone with the winds,
Closed and dabbed with the wounds
Feigning resistance
Eating the skins and tourniquets
And desiccation is bliss
Flaming the mires
Unattended by the currents
Of your hydration
Casted, fated
To pretend
Letting go.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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