Running Through The Forests Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The dead twigs,
The silent willows and
The desolate leaves
All rustle as we
Scamper for truths
And rummage for answers

Love has been lost
In an immense stream
Of labyrinths.
I don’t know who you are
Or how you bleed at night
As you grow weary
Of these troubled questions
At night as you scrounge
For answers at night
In the blank faces
Of the stars.

And sometimes, when I lay
On the prickly bed at night
The bedposts create frictions
And the arms of the clocks
Make love in the stillness
And reticence of the night’s oceanic
Asylum and I lay there
Silently too as muted as the night
And think of
Your little photographs
Your fragile arts,
Beguiling aesthetics
And crumbling breath
Of laughter.

These little fragments
Conspire to make
Empires,
Castles,
Bastions
Where I relish and desire
To stay
Like lights trapped
Inside eyes like shutters.

And when the distance
Seals and shuns itself
Only to eviscerate and
Grow farther into flames
And transatlantic abstractness,

Where you are
Is where I’d rather be.