Pastel Nights Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Pastel Nights



</>I am sullied,
As I writhe under navy green sheets,
I never rise cleansed,
I always rise with a plague,
Of the inadequacy to forget,
And at times I festoon the linoleum floors
With pools of sweat and myriads of cold tears;
I do not know the ways to
Convalescence, but I recognize
The routes and detours to
Losing one’s sanity,
In one’s tedious room.
It is too late to counsel,
The soul has already fled from the body,
And there is no equinox
To serve as a balance for a tryst,
No winter to shed off the heat,
No summer to melt the glaciers
Inside my throat – there is nothing here,
Only darkness that fills the room,
There is no room here, only gardens –
Gardens of metal flowers and
Cotton dreams –
I always lose myself in the night,
I never find myself in the day,
For the day is drudgery,
The streaks of the Sun are extensive,
And they tower over me,
As if ridding me of my innocence –
Oh, the first cuts are always
The deepest, always the hardest to cure,
Bandage it with hope, it eviscerates quickly.
Expose it to air, it gets contagious,
Contagious enough to have blinded you
In your wakefulness.
The memories are always garish,
And I wander baffled over the Earth,
Why one name takes too easy to memorize,
But too long – as if there is no hope
In effacing it from the heart,
From the mind, etched on one’s soul,
With white, pastel shoals and white-fanged wolves
To devour me at night, and scatter my flesh
During the dawn – Everything is wrong,
And the search for clarity
Meanders far from my reach
As I converse with people one by one,
As I feign a smile one Sun after another,
As I slumber under a moon and a collection
Of stars that never utter anything in the night.
The night is mine alone, and there is no one
To share it with.

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