The lines in our palms is our map <br />but we hold nothing but the moonshine <br />so this vacant abyss drenches our paths <br />like our empty hands, we meander <br />without any purpose at all <br /> <br />We learned the phantom's secret <br />in riveting themselves in forlorn circles <br />like the rain, we free fall and <br />when we slap the ground <br />we are water no longer <br /> <br />Still, your shadows perpetually traipse <br />back and forth my dark alleys <br />like a song effulgently whistling <br />promises in these aberrant ears <br /> <br />And in this times, the hour stops <br />the larcenous chase of our feet <br />to halt and stare upon the circles <br />disembogued by our fleets <br /> <br />You have never left at all.<br /><br />Norman Santos<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/escapism-13/
