Eternal Nights, Ephemeral Musing Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I have a warm liaison

With the spur of the night;

There is such astute reason,

That can perforate through the moon:

I thought of lines that could

Croon to your immaculate soul

As if crowning you with jewels,

Your eyes of diamonds that salute the sky;

Or maybe, endow you to a throne

That would match your patrician ways

-

I have a cold liaison with the night;

The speck of time but not a speck of light

That in my poetry I:

Could run my fingertips through your hair,

I could swim underneath your other-worldly scent,

If then so, poetry would permit me to clasp my hands

With yours and match crease after crease until

There is a world unsheathed from the billowing sighs

In between hands as hungry as mouths;

Then tonight, let me write poetry and writhe from head

To the hushed ground;

-

Look, in my poetry I have you in my arms:

Delicate, warm, flushed skin

Glinting, sugar-coated teeth

Sweat - the salt on your skin like dew dropping

Unto the serrated grass,

Eyes that have an indifferent allure,

The kind of eyes that one finds himself lost,

As if staring a thousand-yards into the vast spaces

In between the celestial and the definite;

Voice as if listening to regal bodies waltz

Unto cedar floors, the wind chiming the chandeliers

And blowing the singe out of the candles

All of this, in my own world of uncompromising verses –

-

But then, I have an ephemeral liaison with the night

And its frigid poetry that seizes without remorse

I may have deluded myself with prose and wishful thinking –

Then, this, a waxing promenade with the cold hands of

Impossibilities within the harsh world of the fragrant night

And flagrant poetry – that, no matter how I enamor myself to,

And no breadth of passion can withdraw me

And my imprisoned soul – that is, I am a prisoner of my own self,

From this selfish liaison that I have with the night and verses;

-

And so, no matter how lengthy these verses may go,

And these nights fall upon the sleeping cities,

Sleeping souls, eyes that are wide awake,

No substance that is too fair,

That a disillusioned poetry may lead me

To her hands, my truant muse,

And melt with me, like fluid – as one,

Never, and this will not materialize in eternal nights

Of short-lived petty verses

And so I know that the night, the verses and I

Will somewhat propel me to you, my muse,

And take me back again to where I began,

In this elbow room of looming anguish.