What Kind Of Loneliness? Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

There is a kind of loneliness,
That I cannot describe
The type of which makes one feel desolate,
In the revelry of the town, with liquor upon tongues.

I could write to say as if,
In a conclusion tapered by such ambivalence
Suffice to say that fear has its own calibration
So I write, 'There is a gauge for loneliness.'

Yet, loneliness cannot be measured in quantities,
So I contemplated, thought of telling a limping man,
As I took the long mile of the street, rather than the subway,
So I said, 'Loneliness, cripples that of all bones.'

Loneliness, however, is not a blight
But a plight, lest should I feel gratified
Because this plight, seeks the kind of bliss,
That cannot be thanked for enough, in years past truant feelings

So I tried to tell myself in front of the mirage,
'Loneliness, is a lacking, of the enthusiasm needed to lust for life.'
Yet, in life, lust would only mislead such traveler,
In his voyage to find meaning, to find what he is seeking

Then perhaps, in this line, I told my eyes,
'Loneliness, is a morose wind that pampers the frown.'
Yet, in this royalty, I feel a king without a crown.
Or an angel with the strut of a clown.

Then I asked a petrified tree, 'What somber does your body hold? '
The tree never said anything, there are no discretion to be bold
Bolder than bodies that bare nothing but perspiration and tattoos
So I said to myself, 'Loneliness, is a sallow tree in the eve of the rapture.'

Yet, loneliness is not as sallow as the tree,
But is as dead as the punctured forestry.
So I traipsed around the penumbra,
With my veins rushing with the feverish corona

So I asked the Sun, 'What loneliness does the Summer hold? '
Fortunate upon the query, the Sun responded with gaiety
'It is the leaves that rustle, that reinforce such lonely feeling.'
So I told myself in a trance, 'Then I must be a leaf on the barren road.'

Yet, I am not as light as a leaf, that does not shatter
Upon impact, with all of the constituents scattered like slivers
I tried to test the wit of the Moon so I asked her,
'What loneliness does your shine hold? '

In the verge of weeping, the Moon replied softly,
'It is when I am defeated by the stars, in nights that I envy their shine.'
And I thought to myself, then loneliness must be an insecure child
So I wrote this in paper, 'Loneliness is to envy what bliss others have.'

Still, I am not contented with the statement
So I sought the only accompaniment
That I enjoy upon casual gatherings,
This time more intimately, I kissed the lips of a goblet.

'What loneliness does liquor hold? ' I asked the goblet,
'It is the kind that inebriates you, because you long for the oblivion..'
He stopped there, and shuddered to speak
He then cried with the alcohol, spinning in the circumference

I never found the words to say,
Where loneliness stayed, I waited in the abyss
But the abyss crippled like a snake in the meadow
I asked him, in a serpent's voice hissing like one

'What loneliness does a serpent hold? '
Courteous enough to ponder over, she told me,
With her sepulchral fangs sticking out like knives,
'It is that no one ever dared to caress my smooth silken body.'

Then, I decoded the serpent, with eyes filled with interest
'Then to be lonely, one must have no one to hold.'
It seemed fitting for the night that's breaking, yet something is amiss
It lacks all the attributes of a truly, forlorn utterance.

I dared enter, this elbow room
With smoke filtered by the venetian blinds
I lay on my bed, the cotton felt like jagged rocks
The dreams solidified, adamantine lucidity in a decline.

I dragged and caught a whiff,
Of the rebellious tar that clogged my lungs
Such difficulty was recognized during respiration
Soon fading into white light, dead without inspiration.

And there it was, sleeping beside me,
The caricature so bent that it stoops in its gait
Together with such imagined ecstasy that came too late
It is in the time of the night where all the clouds are silent

Where the moon is jealous of the stars,
The serpent cries with her heart scarring,
Also, the trees are helplessly waiting
For another life to come, in their austerity

Now the goblet is half-empty
And the Sun, now displayed dimly
And the limping man, crying surreptitiously
To deduce, there are no words to describe the lonely.