Queen In Repose Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Good morning, 9: 30 in the Sun’s corona
I assume a different persona,
Shaped by memories in the context of your hue
The morning is asinine, competing with you.

The hair, of which nostalgia found its cages
Like teeth of the snake that thrust my veins,
When you’re not around, I’m either drunk or dead
At the dark pit of the bar, or the abyss of the bed.

The stupefied lark sings of your loss,
And I toss and turn in my lair of sullied cotton
There’s no bliss in your absence, only tribulation
For a heart in its physiology is dead without a flame

So when the moon arrives in its harlequin fashion
And quips of the image you flourish in your slumber
Then repose has its royalty that speaks highly of you,
For it is fond of crowning you with diamonds when you sleep.