Fata Morgana Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Mazily, I wander
My two feet dangling over the
Oceanic cries of the incongruent sea:
Faltering upon the zephyr
That blusters in a paroxysm of cholera.
The waves merge
Into a cataclysmic inferno
Of submerged empires.

The yonder side of the hollow chasms:
Alive in the vitriol of dour men
And drunken women of augured skies.
A sententious threat,
A theatrical attrition upon musical beds.
Look, the mirage ushers from
The deep wells,
The aqueducts of quagmire.
The furlough of the Sun is as decadent
As the muse that slumbers
In a halted quietus.

Slithering silhouette away
From the sweet lemon grass of vying
Hands of efflux, nostalgia in cocktails
And dispositions upon cities
A fata morgana; yonder side of the hollow chasms
Coil in a helix – a surreptitious aesthetic
Of lavish chandeliers dislimning.
The rivers riveted to the Earth:
A grandiose juxtaposition of
Riotous empires and jousting clouds
Ensconce the mirage
From the brazen skyline and its
Neighboring tapestries.

Slivers of rain, debris of the patrician misgiving,
The crowned harlequin wane in a supercilious abatement.
The misleading penumbra, the feverish tear
Of the Sun, and the ashen agility of the stars
Slowly shy away in the twilight’s residue.
A temporary constraint, a desolated fracture
The mirage limps still and cold
At the yonder side of the hollow chasms
Waiting to be open to the elements
Of time, sloshing rain, tormenting scorn
Of the imperishable noon time delight
And baleful ebb. I sit here quieted,
Unspoken to, until the fata morgana
Draws near – the contagious promise
Of this expanse, the ides.