Burning Hours Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I bludgeoned the walls,
And drove the portentous cats astray -
Braved the immense seas of reminiscence,
Toiled the barren lands,
And made love to the sound
Of the siren’s cacophony.

I infiltrated the bastions of the night,
The impalpable face of the harlequin,
And the seductive thresholds of the Sun’s
Burning pillars
But they will never give you
Back to me.

I picked up the withered tulip,
And girdled the petals
Close to the thorns juxtaposed
To my malingering phantasm,
But they will never give you
Back to me.

And now,
The verses stifle
In a paroxysm of nostalgic currents,
In epistles of war-torn brothers,
And forlorn saints
Cast into a sea of torment,
Of a lament that grips the soul
And sunders it into
Infinitesimal broken worlds.

This I know,
They will never give you back to me.
In these burning hours,
I have evanesced,
I have whittled away,
Into the darkest portions
Of the luminescent asylum.

The gods have spoken,
In obsequiousness -
The crowds have taken
My blood.
They will never give you
Back to me.