Slow Decay Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Sheathes of the moon disentagling,

To the midnight disarray waxing

Like the waves upon the shore crashing,

I quell my desire for this amaranthine search for meaning

‘Til then, lambasted doors are open

For the only damsel worth the taking,

With your eyes set to slice upon skin,

There is no language far too obscene

-

In this bed of sullied veneer,

No fantasy nor meaningless wandering appear

For as genuine as your eyes of bequeathed gems,

Hungry is my passion, for the touch of your silken hands

Of which creases tell so much how lengthy the saunter has been

Every beast, uncouth in manner

Every trouble, lurching at the road yonder

Where, in these halls, mollified perhaps and not vexed

Shall I find a hair of intermittent locks worth betrothing

Tell me, this search better be not null and void

-

I awoke with the offensive tangerine sharpness

Of the Sun in its lucid vale, my actions withdrawn from

What gregarious people do from time to time,

To pine from work and engage from one soul to yet another,

Losing time in the month of October,

Gaining a feigned tribute of forever to what these

Eyes have been trying to descry in a lifetime

Of partitioned grin and emancipated fractured jowls

My arms in between folds grew ravines and vines

Where desolation creeps in between the immense night

And vivid skylines where the bridges crashed in the

Rueful tempest of emotions and a labyrinth of impassive picadors

-

I have gone to a nearby tavern to look

For a soul to identify, to juxtapose myself beside a mirrored visage

That has been waiting for my impression, and then

With one sprightly stare, I would, the same with the fire -

The flare waiting, would be kindled once more

So, should I vehemently, and as finicky as my erstwhile self

Could have said, “I am but aloof to disdain, ”

But the rehearsed speech will soon be set

To a pit of fallacies and follies that none of us

Thought of trifling, but in the long road of forked options

We still do - What frivolity lies in these skinned skeletons,

I ought to remain silent, and never ogle at the truth

-

Meanwhile I head home,

With the preset dawn sinking, wailing like a siren

And the promise of the night is effaced

By the cold verdure that serenades the azure

With constellations and night-time fanaticism

And so I say, rid of stoicism,

I wish to exist tonight - So I’ve heard in prayers

And psalms, short stories and spasms in between life and death

That there is nothing in the search, but the search itself

And so to hold hands is to embrace death

To kiss one’s lips is to seal a demise,

And to embrace one, withering body

Is to accept the invitation

Towards a slow decay.