In Time Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The clock is reticent,
It does not make the blare it is fated to make –
Oh, the morose discord in between the ticking,
The monotonous abandonment
And that is the loneliness one can feel,
In between the arms of the clocks,
And a straying, blasé visage
Oh, and in the arms of the clocks that make love
To the night’s reverie of despair,
How fastidious one can be,
In lieu of a gale in one’s heart –
And look at all the fancy people,
With dandy legs that saunter
Across the city buoy – where am I to go,
In time, I will know,
For in their smiles, I am lost
In between glares and dimly lit rooms
For there is a darkness that tolls endlessly
Inside me, visceral and obtrusive
They converse,
Only to exist, and do away with senility
And not make sense and utter sensibility
And their abandonment that transpires
With no remorse – How can I placate, tremulous one?
How can I be persnickety?
Perhaps, it is you, a vastly incapable mirror
I have conjured your image,
And from that alone, I am one with the fecund abyss
With an enfeebled stare –
Soon enough, when the world cedes –
Oh the great relinquishing,
In time, in time
In between the arms of the clock, I will find you,
And you will find me, I am submissive, thus
Capitulation should least then betroth me to you
In time, we will, in time.