A Night So Dearly Feigned Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The night is as pretentious,
As the phantom of the dusk
Behind the mask of white marble macabre
Lies a smile so wryly flashed.

The pleasures of hiding,
Behind the pretense of a feigned bliss
Is like smoking a cigarette in a clustered room
With the wheezing of your chest resounding impending doom.

Whenever I look in the eyes,
Of a stranger, with famishing inadequacies
I see a man, assuming a cannonball
Ready to plummet in a lethal velocity past concrete walls.

Astonishingly,
The pain wraps me like poison ivy
Senescence devoid like angels thrown to infernal waters
The kind of water that does not appear blue from the sight.

Look at the pretender,
Shedding his skin like a serpent near a river,
The still waters now talking, murmuring like thieves
That conspire like men with tricks up their sleeves.


The scent of the night,
Beckons to the everlasting noontime sky,
Flourishing through the eyes of sighing seraphs,
With the sighs bludgeoning consciences, now deaf.

If the moon averts one, bedazzling shine,
Then it is destined to eschew the stars,
For the constellated azure is always too unsure,
With the fate that lies with a man and his pure heart.

How long shall you pretend?
A culling pain does not spare each blunted pulsation,
It claims what you have, you have weak constitution.
Wear this mask, until you efface the night.

The night is fractured,
With the liquid lucidity spilling out from the crevasses of the moon,
And your dreams of a bliss in an avenue,
Thwarted by the flood of the despairing, desultory moon.

The vestige laid by this night,
Hovers over the gale and the tapestry without light,
His heart like the night, wept as if it rained
All for a night so dearly, so passionately feigned.