Sol Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

In his take, to exist
Is to kiss the cigarette butts,
Whilst watching the rain cascading on rooftops,
Exploiting the sallow bloom

Acquainted not with humanity,
But with the fantasy,
Of elegiac shadows cloaked in the dark
With murmurs likened to that of the heart

And if true love is besought,
It is identified not with a woman,
Not those envisaged by gregarious fetishes,
But with himself, desolate, adorned with blemishes

And to seek light perhaps,
Under the jowls of the Sun, reluctant to speak fervidly
Is to find meaning between misanthropy,
And introversion among grotesque bodies and chasms

To wake up, not with fascination
But with the encumbrance of the passing shine
With eyes hungry for sympathy,
Yet never seem to acquire vicariously

Oh, and shall I forget the way
He converses, like roaring mobiles on a freeway?
The colloquy not among tongues and mouths; hence
In front of a mirror, annexed to a languid soul

So beyond recluse,
Sheathed like bones beyond trauma,
And posing contusion lay, roving with renegade aversion
Apt for the reconstitution of insatiable apprehension

Then shall he ensconce himself,
Amongst the crowd, for he is belittled,
By the depth, and height of the entities around him,
A null and void lurker, with a wandering mind

Meandering in grassy plains,
Of mauve sadness, soused in plain white bliss
Heavier than his body, a ball of chain,
Sapping the vitality, out of his besmirched vagary

In a spec of time,
Liquor straying through veins,
Nicotine and tar on fire, sojourning
In lungs like gibbets for lynching.