Emerald Behind The Garden Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The petulant, prying flowers
Of flagrant disregard
Like wreathes sorted in the disdain
Of the wayward Sun.
There is a garden behind the aurora –
And we fail to realize it.
Where are we in this venture?
How many roads must a man traverse
Until he admits that he is lost?
He does not need a map
In this taciturn pace –
He needs an accompaniment,
An orchestra of hope,
Of violins,
Of reticent mockingjays
Far-flung, and esteemed
With wings that stretch out
Like the garlands.
How many paths shall I take
Until I tire from the drudgery?
The steps I take are engraved on the sand,
And the past molds effigies
For me to laugh at –
There is no garden at the back of the aurora.
The aurora is the garden.
A bountiful feast
Of vicarious eyes,
A soiree of fancy people
And I wish to belong.
Wait for me, young muse anew
I will come for you
Until I dismember this path
I have long taken
In the cold hands of time.
The perverse streaks of Sun-kissed porcelain
Now fades, and they have long
Taken the porcelain to besmirch it.
I am set to another emerald
Perhaps a lasting one,
An amaranthine endeavour
Of losing – but there, the emerald would find me
One with the aurora and its lavish tapestries.
And when I am to lose myself again,
There, the emerald will be,
One with the garishly lull land,
Waiting for me,
One with me.
Dancing with me.