White

These stark and sterile corridors,
These immaculate walls and floors
Of lambent amnesia and senile senses
Could only beckon the onset of oblivion

In these gray rooms, the shade of the sun
Cannot fecundate the insensate gloom
Our slivers linger on like echoes of chortles
And simpering rolls of tears amidst the smoke

The wind howls through the windows
And the forgetful floor and gregarious fortifications
Basked into its inebriated brawl dumbly
Forgetting the lofty pillars that once surrounds me

The shadow mused the prancing beacons
And confound it to the ephemeral joie de vivre
Because there is nothing left to be done
But to mourn in the incarceration of the self

I apologize for ripping the golden manacles
And for bleeding from its sharp and gelid grip
And for washing the streak of sunlight
That plastered the lackadaisical walls

The guilt oppresses me, far more than oblivion
Because I love who we were, I miss who we were
But we will never be complete again
In a house of white-phantom corridors

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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