Nocturne Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Look, a fire in between the gears of the clocks
Its machine-like rusting murmurs croon
All the memories in between lost time,
Departed love, furlough of the Sun,
Distraught of the stars – billow by billow,
Blare by blare, they sound like screeching horrors
Or fingertips of pastel lacquer upon glass
And shards

I am unable to sleep,
Sleep is far-fetched, it withers away
Together with the aeons suspended
In each stroke of the lunar tail,
And the harlequin facet – Oh nocturne,
I wish to have not known you,
For in the burning arctic that sears
With a wintry flame, there I am,
For in the minutes of this sanguine imageries,
I am lost in the dark, the impasse
With latitudes that narrow spew after spew
Of the mist oozing from wall
That cloys me

Oh, nocturne, I am in dire need of slumber
And now that November has sprang forth,
Beckoning the silence in my solitary confinement,
You have put insult on my body – a flagrant and maiming one
You have stifled and burst open each wound,

And now the blood flows smoothly upon my skin,
Crusting to make sure that it is instilled
That when I bleed in my sleep,
I am alive in between wheezes and trembling sighs
Oh nocturne, help me efface her memory,
Or at least, let her fall upon me as lithe as a feather –
So as not to crush my bones, to bludgeon me on my bed
I am scorned enough like a chagrined mother,
And defiled enough like a disgruntled father,
This be true, I am an orphaned lover
Nocturne, spare me, for behind these walls,
There are shadows lurking – shadows that possess
Her face.