Madness

There is no peace
Just a struggle not to submit
Into pain, into bliss
Standing in the helm
Amidst a starless sea
And the price is
Grieve and rapture:
Madness.

poem by Norman Santos
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Black Bruises V

Bruised and beseeched
inner lamentations
the only genial thing is that
no one else is sentient
inside this blackness
and I am the only one
to suffer on my sufferings.

poem by Norman Santos
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Up

This elevator would escalate you
into the peak of shattering
and you will find me when
you grounded back your dreaming,
basking in the squalors
of the inevitable veracity

poem by Norman Santos
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Ignorance

‘Ignorance is bliss'
Ignorance is the hiss
Underneath the anticipation
Sprawled in your inebriation
It is the dagger pierced
In every chest it kissed
Ignorance is
The antithesis.

poem by Norman Santos
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The Sepulcher

Inside this cringing vault
Impenetrable to demons
Angles flapped their wings
Fanning the inner turbulence
And the embers of suffering
And inside this vault
No one else has to know.

poem by Norman Santos
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Sepulcher

Inside this cringing vault
Impenetrable to demons
Angles flapped their wings
Fanning the inner turbulence
And the embers of suffering
And inside this vault
No one else has to know.

poem by Norman Santos
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Livid Words, Garish Codes

Elucidate with ambiguous words
Lofty towers resonating an
Echolalia of a vague title
Vacillate between empty palms of an
Empire immortal yet secular, counts
Nary with prediction, nary with perdition.

poem by Norman Santos
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Butterfly Gone

Speak little
Take a pencil
Or a paintbrush
Emancipate the lust
In your left brain
In every bend of the strokes
In every blot of the paint
And outside the canvass
Find the lambaste
Of a butterfly gone

poem by Norman Santos
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Last Words

Were the last words enough
To abjure your hostile death?

Were the last words enough
To vindicate your unconscious vagaries?

Were the last words enough
Or will I punish myself out of sleep tonight?

poem by Norman Santos
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Petrichor

There is nothing more
that I abhor
than the rain outside
on a sleepless night
or the lack of
oblivious mechanisms
when it is raining inside
the brittle bones.

Ah, can you smell
the morose in the petrichor?

poem by Norman Santos
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