By The Portraits, Disheartened Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Aghast, there is blood,
During the very first cry,
Up to the last retch of blood,
And the air of iodine may have rendered
Me whole and clean, as if purged
I am now cradled by my mother,
Lithe on her bosom, cozy upon her motherly warmth
And she sang lullabies for me to take to my slumber,
And then dream about dreams, and in dreams, dream some more

The very first walk, then here comes,
In every trample, that is light upon the linoleum floors,
I may have the strength to open doors and never close them,
I tried to talk, but I seem to be making gibberish and rubbish,
But then they took me once more,
My mother, her soft hand upon my pliant skin,
My father, his hoarse voice emboldening me,
I basked under the Sun, wanly, wantonly,
And in the night I slumber in peace and wake up
In peace, again, comfortably, the breeze,
The sanctuary of my room, there, I had it all,

And then I grew burly, and somewhat my simian face
Are now prominent with bones and edges,
And the love of my mother, now I recognize,
The leonine heart of my father, I tried to dramatize
Theatrically, though in a thick screen of misty pretense –
I have met, a woman who is younger in age,
But older, and much alive in width, in depth,
In grace and in voice –
And made me say, “Mother I may not need your lullabies.”
And another quip of, “Father, I recognize my own heart.”
And so I dined, and fell endlessly,
From there, the amaranthine abstractness of this feeling,
Will soon usher the vim in me, the verve,
Look, I love you,
And maybe soon enough, we will loathe each other,
But I do not anticipate it, there is rejuvenation
In between the luster and darkness of your hazel eyes,
That baffles me – where I am?
I seem to have lost my place.

And now, here, trying to make some sense,
Or at least, trying to save a semblance of one’s reality
And plummet straight into the sea of nostalgia
And its harsh waves – I recount stories
From the hospital walls, up to the walls of my room
Up to her world, and her world alone,
Where I twine with the stars and engross the moon
With such amore that I have forgotten myself in the process,
And almost lost my mind in the noon time’s prowess,
Now she is gone, and now, I tried to say,
“Mother, I need your lullabies.” And,
“Father, let me have your heart of bravery.”
But then, these did not help, nor assuage my clamors
And in every turning of the clocks, I ponder endlessly,
I may have wasted one heart in one life, irrevocably –
And people talked and prattled and said things,
That never made any sense,
Where am I to go?
I do not know,
And I do not want to know.
If only I could turn back time, not to the phases
Of frailty – but to the moments of clarity
Where her face is clearer than clear – yet now blurry,
I see smoke, and I taste the haze,
Almost dishearteningly, one leaves,
While the other stays.