Clarion Call Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I have an inclination to the
Particularity of things:

The clouds are tired
Of raining
The months, the ides
And even the
Erstwhile marked days
On the calendars
Have now tarnished
Into things that have
No cosmic relevance
To the days that transpire.

My symphonies are drenched
And my seas,
My waves, my pelicans even
Are exhausted
The waves are maimed,
And my seas have grown
Paler and paler.

My seas reject
You upon entrance
My clouds whir
Upon your photographs
And the months grimace
Over reminiscences.

These hands seek redemption,
The heart starkly pleads
For innocence
To be bestowed upon
Rather than stolen from.

This is the clarion voice
Of my soul:
Fatigued,
Yet still sauntering
Towards
An inamorata
Behind the expanse.