Closing Stages Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

There may be things that begin,
And happen, with no closer ties, like the snickering
Of the children outside,
Or the bickering of the birds,
The wheezing of the seas –
And here, I am reminded
Of how the waves extend its illustrious hands
To the shorelines, under my feet,
Beneath the reticent Moon and its flowing veneer
I can feel the comfort of the cradling waves,
The howl of the wind from the back of the horizon,
And the way it is skewered.
Look, the waves are coming back to the
Sea’s gossamer bosom, and there,
By the jagged corals, or the burning abyss
Of the cerulean waters, I may write the last lines
Of the poem, to remind me the last of your voice,
The last of your tousled hair,
The unrests on your shoulders,
The soft, cumbersome hands of yours,
Your weight pressing on my body – at times, lithe
But often times fracturing and oppressive
I could write to say:
In the fine lines of the sea’s cry,
There is a moment suspended in time
Or,
The immense moon belittles the singe of the Sun,
The way I look for you, can never be replaced
By any other man
My river and its efflux of selflessness,
Your ocean of selfishness,
My whole, conspiring universe of amaranthine love,
Your whole, compressing valves of rejection
I despair in the night,
And you fumble as if to slur in your speech at dawn,
Where I am half-drunk by the sleep that lingers,
And the taste of the dusk is always coated with rue
How can I ever find pictures of you,
If the sands of your lost time are dissipated
All across my room of trance and stable apprehension?
I could think of more last lines,
And I hope to God, with knees genuflected on the
Hard floor that cushions my weight to the direction
Of my soul’s burning ember and Novembers chained
To your hair, to your memories –
How can I forget when I am forged with regret?
I resent the day that you have let me go,
Because you swam through the crystal waters
Of my flaws and found out that I am but a puddle
In an eloquent piece of tarnished land
And so the last lines could go on,
But I do not know when the last of my love for you will,
For in the burning sensation of your forgetfulness,
Your dormant oblivion that is soon to grow active,
I am but sluggish in my steps – there is no moving on,
I pace around narrow stairs and shallow alleys
That lead to impasses and labyrinths
And so t he closing stages are dawning –
And the repugnant waters are now scented
With your perfume of forgetting;
How, in your universe, will I ever redeem myself?
If you claim that a soul is irrevocable,
Then you must have plundered me wholly,
And caged my soul between the creases of your palms
And there, I am asleep and in my waking I will be sundered
You are the first cut,
And I fathom that you will be the last
Maybe now, I can say this – for you said that time heals,
If you say so, then my time quells, my time asphyxiates
Because time has no use for a heart that fails to mend,
And for a sanity that refuses to believe that there is a rough end
In the smooth sails of your islands, your ocean
I will always look for your ocean – though in silence,
In silent retreats and solitary confinements,
Perhaps until I no longer think of you and your waters of sanguinity
Now, the movement of the hands of the clocks are swift
And agile as your wind of alacrity into forgetting me-
I want to curse you for the oblivious wandering but I can’t,
For my tongue still seeks your skin, my hands still feel
The cotton of your breath, my olfactory can still catch
The world of your scent – I am falling into a bottomless pit
I am in your limbo – and you are in my heaven – we are stuck
In reverse polarities, bipolarities, any kind of polar realizations
But nothing can rebuke you into coming back to me,
And I ache like an orphaned child, like a widowed being –
If there is much to life than just desolation,
Then mendacity has a fraternization between obscured beliefs;
I refuse to believe – I believe closing stages, but not so much new hopes
That usher from the skin of a deluded man awake in a sleepless nostalgic delirium
And so the closing stages,
You closed your doors,
Your windowpanes are shunned,
Your wounds are now scarring,
Your wings are now unsheathed,
And you have regained the vitality in your senescence
Meanwhile, I lose track of time,
I lose track of the dates and valued occasions –
And at times, I lose myself that I scream
Silent bellows to walls and hallowed sanctions
To the pillars of my bed – Sometimes I cradle my pillow
And assume that it’s your vibrant face – but the night
Continues to swallow me –
Closing stages, for when you find someone new,
A man perhaps of foreign descent or any kind
But not like me – no resemblance, not the same ire and irk
I will grow and die a jealous man, and I will be
Outcast into the shores of your beguiling memories
All I have are memories, I do not have you,
Now I have all the best in life,
And that is to love in silence,
To be impoverished in all days that revolve
In the quintessence of my demise –
Look, the end is looming though it has already passed,
Perhaps I deny it too many times.
I will never, ever forget how I am devastated.