The Moon - Enigma Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

What is in this night?
Is it the stifling bat at night?
Where the neighborhoods are subdued into serenity –
Where their faces are straightened and not wrinkled by
The ubiquitous troubles of day?
What is in this night?
Is it that in all parts of the world,
There might be a revelry of souls,
Gyrating with their heartbeats of tempestuous bliss?
What is in this night, reader, tell me,
That I always lose myself in it?
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Maybe it is the gossamer Moon,
Where the entire encumbrance will be told,
Like an allegory told before an orphan sleeps to be emboldened
By the exploits of some shabby man decrepitly woven by
An author, by a falsely sharp tongue;
But then I am wrong, for these do not appall me,
Maybe it is the sepulchral scent of the night,
Where all the dangers thieve and plunder souls in their sleep,
And the nightmarish slumber might sink bone-deep into bones
And fractured them like this immensely fractured night
Where neither prayers nor eulogies can ignite these bones
To shed light – these are all null and void.
-
There is something in the moon,
Perhaps a moon – the mirror of my soul,
Just like eyes, but then the eyes fade in the night
There is something in the moon that despairs me,
And it is perhaps, and precisely, the memories
Of how I have come and twined your way with mine,
And in the sundry story of these enervated chain of emotions,
I lose one more day of gaiety – and so at times,
When I am either dreaming awake or not writing,
I curse the moon and vow to sleep as early as possible
Before the mockingjays find refuge, before the men come back
To their homes and wives and children,
I hoped to sleep earlier – alas, my faith is faltering
And my composure is toppling – I have failed
And now the aftermath – another morose night of hollowed spaces,
Another chagrined fellow writing words of full meaning but hideous
Appearances; I know what is in this night,
And the night, the moon, the enigma, the way I have lost you
In the morning – they resemble each other and pull each other
And weave strong threads of nostalgia to batter me yet again,
And crucify me on my death bed before the Sun’s aurora –
And so I despise you – the moon, enigma.