Submarine, I Will Be Poem by Norman F. Santos

Life is a great wide open sea
A vast ground for a wandering
Albeit, the compass notifies
The route you’re heading at
It can never direct the gust
That manipulates the malleable path
Would you be anchored or carry on?

And veracity encumber like tides
Upon the hurling waves as I muse
At the mirror of distortion
Abashedly rolling on the floor
Of undulating lacquer tiles
For it reveals the naked truth
That we can limit to incertitude

The sea gulls hovered above like kites
As the tidal floor devoured their silhouette
The fishes swam with the current
Like vessels in comatose vapidly buoyed
And they don’t even know nor care
With vanity beneath their fins and wings

By the myriad of vehement eddies
I vexed myself from swallowing the ebbs
And though, I can’t understand the scene
I refocused my periscope at the patios
Of blasé and opted to be a submarine
Sink, sink, sharpen your teeth and sink.