Back To The Cul-De-Sac Poem by Norman F. Santos

Incessantly deteriorating
In a reckless capitulate
But never coming to the final grains
As I lay half-awake in my funeral
In the assuage of my nighttime bed
My room is the tourniquet
Of this woebegone torment,
My feet combed the mistral
Breaths of the yawning death
As I stared in the fluorescent light
Impenitently shoving me into the blight
And its phosphorescence unfurled
The lifeless mint of the green walls
And the cold wavering tiles beneath
With abstract patterns that resembles
The slumbering sea, is taking me away
Far from the garish hands
Of the firmament’s beam
Raise it higher and ferry me back,
I plead, fetch me back
Into the dying memories.
The boring light punctured a stigma
Blinding from the vague darkness
Basking yonder the threshold of the door
An albino danseuse conquered my vision
And the stark pallor corrodes into the hue
Of the omnipresent phantoms of rue
I am going back, I am going back
Back into the cul-de-sac.