Riverbank With A Winch Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Of books that never shall I read,
With a boundless taste to go threading,
Withdrawn from derision of austere pasts,
In the twentieth century decadence and lacking

Of the mirth that I shall never beseech,
Encroaching tides of the Pacific or the Transatlantic,
The dismembered Mediterranean, that whistles with the wind,
Stargazing underneath the twined arcs of mirrors that grimace

Intercontinental drifting might lead me back to you,
The hair that coils the folded trunk of the petrified,
And the maimed dagger, that has swam deeper,
I am further denied of the path that looms the way towards you

As planets collide, and divulge the history,
Of our existence, the beings that lost their place
In books, in writing, in life and in dying
The days disembark upon years of slow rejuvenation

In the delay of your arrival,
Shall I inherit life again, the breath of
The winter’s mouth, the snowflake’s blight
They insist to fall upon traces of white skin, lissome flare

If there are roads that fork,
And lead to perplexity,
Of all the peculiar asphalt-tainted love allegories
Which shall I traverse?

Then a gist of the atmosphere;
And a pint of ecstasy and fear,
Shall the tides be ambivalent,
Whilst the Zephyr changes its course

And all the roads will merge as one,
All the tempest, will soon be calmed
The plates - yes the plates will be hasting,
Upon entities that have been consumed by the waiting

So the time will come,
Between the Riverbank with a winch,
A well-deserved mistress,
Drenched in the riverbank, the riverbank with a winch.