Plucked Out Of Her Gardens Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I writhe
And pirouette like
A roulette of inane dreams.
And then,
Infinitesimal vessels
Travel the course
Of my deeply truncated body.
I fancy blindly
Among one star at night
To transform this somberness
Into day –
But then, whatever the time of day,
The date in time, or the day in a year,
All of which seem to be as perfect as an
Illusory soiree, I seem to
Lose the scent of the day and
Turn it into a vile night.
Nigh, the wolves are.
Her eyes are far-flung,
And plucked away from her gardens
Of fresh splendor –
And so,
I am jaded with dreams
About her,
And nightmares,
About wolves
And realities
Of how the wolves
Took her away from me.