White Flag Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Dispute over lunch,
A banquet of impeccable timing
And a great collapse
For a deserted head, chiming
And so over the spoon
And fork clattering,
I find that soon, I will be going
To a place I anticipate

The fortress is cascading
In a two fold deliberation of the Sunlight,
The aurora that is scarce in iridescence
A spear in the heavens that inspire the ire
That nothing – as far as faith and love are concerned –
Ever happens in between folded hands
And days of fanaticism and ardent, amorous planes
Planes of departure, and not of arrival

So my fingers are set towards you,
Because I blame, in every portion of your sculpted face,
Your insulting grin, your cold disarray,
I blame you for everything, apart from the same
Herculean boulder I carry upon my shabby shoulder –

If this vicissitude will pass, that I do not know,
But one thing is for sure, I will never turn my head
And leave a vestige that was once laid for you,
And for the others that wish to follow me as I isolate
Myself in a burning cabin, slow dancing consolation

And then I drank with a book club,
A book club of lost souls and I find that among the people
Of fanciful tongues and sprightly hands that gesture
Hope and not defeat, I find that I am jaded
In a hole created by my very own fluid hands
I learned, that every trouble is a harsh acquaintance
Is a test of faith, all at once feeble and futile
With one more forked tongue after another,
We find, in the book club, that there’s no remedy
There really isn’t

I slur in my speech alongside a barren one,
That I could identify myself almost immediately
Conjuring the same beliefs, the same vindications
But then deep in me, stern enough to know
And frail enough not to care, that he is stronger than me,
A monolith of adroit stoicism – perhaps he is numb
Or I might be wrong, but I can never tell
As baffling as eyes should be, I die every minute I try to live

With heaving sighs, freezing on a desolate vehicle
Where the engine roars like primal, rabid beasts
I tried to induce an arrogant roar, and I end up
Making timid, modest shrieks – shrieks of indignation
And so as I reach my sanctuary – my bed of darkened grim
I wave my white flag, and hope for one, little death
The moment the Sun decides to show its face
Of deceit and false hope