Perhaps, the blight in all of us <br />Are denizens of a labyrinth <br />And are all engaged in a feudal mêlée <br />Amongst our ludicrous terrors <br />Etched in fleuron to our buried core; <br />Then we must all be the hero <br />Of our clandestine tailored tales <br />Regardless how omnibus the chronicles, <br />Or how rippling the wave of climax, <br />Or how dark the corners of the nadir, <br />It will narrate the atrocity <br />Of our dime a dozen breaths <br />Shallow or unfathomable, <br />In synergy with the heartbeat or not. <br /> <br />Sometimes, I do confabulate <br />With the cajoling omnipresence of hope <br />And submit to its scheme and proposition <br />That the struggling and the somnolent undertow <br />Makes a dogged-hungry hero, <br />And yonder this sedative restrain; <br />This famished comatose sleep <br />Of an oppressed hero or heroine <br />Solders one from rubbish slivers <br />Into a potent artillery of silvers <br />And the anguish veers and sprayed <br />Asphalt to the grave. <br /> <br />Do you bleed in your riling fists? <br />Or do you bleed in your asphyxiated hilt? <br /> <br />I, for one, was honed a claymore <br />And you can picture me <br />Glistening at the back of the hands <br />Of the yawning sunset <br />And erecting motionless <br />Into a small hill of the earth <br />Like a string to a buried puppet <br />Pleading, in its taut stance <br />To be stricken and undulate <br />Into the emollient hands <br />Of a puissant hero <br />With profound caverns in calluses <br />Of the yielding palms; <br />A raddled blade <br />Shrilling for the mellifluous <br />Hands of suicide.<br /><br />Norman Santos<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pleas-of-a-claymore-iii/
