Monikers And Registrations Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

It is the prime of the clock,
As the Sun bursts in bliss
The aurora, looking at me, with a wry facet
What have I done wrong, sublime Sun?

If the birds that squawk in the morning,
Have significant ties to what I feel in the somber and mourning,
Then it shall appear to me, in a lady-like vestige,
That this morning, unlike any other, has no prestige in me.

The hollow chasm, empties itself
In a cycle as vicious as the thief of lives
The repugnant spectrum of lives dictated by scriptures,
Across the spectrum, like turtle in currents, desecrated currents

My body, a hallowed desert
The tumbleweed, crawling like an infant,
Alongside the dunes that stretch like arms
Embrace me, for no one has ever done that

I could pace myself, as the Sun crowns the pastures
King of all that is splendid, am I the slave of the morning
Then I shall wait until night falls like tears on coffins
Awoke in the morning breath,

It is morning again.
In the spur of the moment’s dying seconds
With a grief that’s as large as two fathoms,
Of the second child’s long, obnoxious ode not to joy, but to derision

The morning is akin,
To the clandestine derision
Vouched upon redeemed monikers and titles
No registrations laid upon the morning.