In my sedentary ineptitude, <br />I shall acquaint you with <br />The uncouth wails of a claymore <br />With the hissing sounds in the air <br />Of its unabashed bashings <br />Slicing through the verdigris of reticence <br />Swallowed, like serrated daggers <br />And the throat that bled the anarchy <br />That had always coiled in the underground <br />Grottos of a stagnant river. <br /> <br />I shall ring the sleeping bells, <br />With the shrills and clatters <br />Spewing the turbulent climates <br />Of a claymore in a warfare <br />That he vied for, like his own <br />And of a greater mayhem <br />When is he is not desirable <br />Pleasant and wanted, <br />And remained sheathed <br />Effacing incorrigible thousand winks <br />In the mausoleum of his scabbard <br />That pierced through the veneer <br />Of impassable platinum. <br /> <br />Have you ever seen a saber? <br />Obstinately lacerating its throat <br />In emitting the anguish <br />Into the moon as he raised <br />Its head to wedge the enemy; <br />A phantasmagoria of an adversary <br />In an amorphous shape <br />For he is an abused vessel <br />Of a blind tormented soul <br />In the emollient hands <br />That he had vied for <br />Like his very own. <br /> <br />Sometimes, the claymore <br />Is more of a scabbard <br />Than a sword. <br /> <br />And when the vigor is acquiesced <br />Cleaving into a carnage <br />With a remonstrative odium <br />He would bow his estoque <br />Into the sanguinary of the soil <br />Reeking with sepulchral remorse <br />Only to pray for the clenched fist <br />That had mended him <br />And forget about his own <br />Fluttering pains <br />And peccadilloes. <br /> <br />Sometimes, the claymore <br />Is more of a rosary <br />Than a sword.<br /><br />Norman Santos<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pleas-of-a-claymore-i/
