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