Life Of A Marksman Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

And there at an arid region,
I sit debonairly, with my rifle slinging
Past my contorted shoulder of deceitful sap
Where the breath is sapid, but the flesh is not –
I have long been a marksman;
Brazen in my strut,
Poised in my stance,
Fate is abrupt,
Penetrating into a feeble trance.
If there is perfection in between the arches of my hands
That fit a gun lucidly,
Then I should be a marksman – all too well and infinitely.
I will never need love – love is crude, sharp and finicky,
I am as fragile as the brass that swarms over my rifle.
I will never need a woman – for I can never handle her sophistication,
I can never disentangle from her hair of nonchalant splendor
And gnaw past the pillars of her quintessential soul –
I am a marksman, and I am betrothed to this morose liaison
With somber vacancies underneath the shrouds of miasmic nights!
I am a marksman, and I am akin to this squalid musing
Towards love in warring states that reach no treaty.
And so, the life of a marksman,
I suffer gladly like a fool encumbered by the grasp of twenty moons
And only one Sun that glints frailly as the vapor of the serrated grass
Eviscerates and transcends as if soul sifting away from the body.
Yes, I am a marksman,
And perhaps, I am an expatriate in my own heart of treason.
As a marksman should declare,
I hold solitude with precision and accuracy.