These Hands Could Only Reach Photographs Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

In here, far-off in the ornate woods
I sulk within the travesty of these hands
Sculpted into effigies or replicas of malaise.
My hands can only reach photographs;
Your photographs of exactness
And veritable symmetry.
I listen to the wafting of the night,
The diamond-whetted lamentation of
The dusk in a wintry autumn crying slivers
Of tears in the enigmatic expanse where the
The flames wallow as the grovelling of the
Incertitude over the supercilious stars spew the
Lapses as they shiver in a cold, dissipating blue misery.

It is at night where I caress your photographs
In unison with my stellar tears. I can hear the
Hoarse wryness of the mangling trees - a laconic rustle
Of petrification and anguish. I watch them
Tremble in a tumultuous mooring and I have
Compared myself to the surging of each passing moment:
You are not here as I hold your photographs close
To my core like a cultivated rose of moribund sleuthing
Within the riddles of trepidation amongst the upheaval of roots.

You, my dearly beloved amaranth - you are far-off
Into the silent night that proposes no reprieve
And in the stillness that is the night of waxing gloom,
The sombreness of this solitary thirst cannot be quenched
By the ocean of your amethyst waters;
Love, my hands could only run through your photographs
And I wait here, dying, as your magnum opuses transcend
To the aloofness of each star at night: avariciously thieving
All of your sediments.