Telephone

A slumbering telephone:
The silence rang
Like a gun shot
An artisan of death
Sitting in a pillar
Unmoved and distant
In the lofty expanse
Where had gone
The peripatetic phantoms
Of the dial tones?

Lying in supine
Without a twitch
Black and lacquer
Bleak and sober
Cringing in the latticing network
As I shrivel, waiting
Futilely for a kind drizzle

My eyes wept, slept
Juxtaposed the wide open heart
Trifling the eroded buttons
Groveling for emergency
Sinking deeper in the inert
Motions of the frequency

I fell, unknowingly,
Into a gravid pit
Of another wishful thinking
That somebody out there
Is deciphering the lullaby
That put the telephone to die
In a perpetual sleep,
And there was the gloriole falling
Clambering the beckon
Of a peremptory delusion
Shrilling mellifluously
I picked up the phone
Crushed it into my ears
Only to listen
To the tightening lynch
In a sharply flat lilt
Of the dreary dial tone.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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