Arctic Complex Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

From the lines of a noise

Written hoarsely, fastidiously on a blank paper

Poised enough to make one feel the electric sadness

In alternating currents of ignited bones and fractured grins,

I’d listen ominously up to its very last

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The hairlines of my father

Ascend to the heavens and so a part of his soul

Relishes upon every turning clock of delight,

And the owls hoot from the distance, and the snakes hiss

Prayers of a great perchance, I heard them all from where I was

Trying to escape what grips my legs and ensnares them in a sharp somber

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The meddlesome kids from the avenue’s endeavor

Sealed closely their ties to the noon time’s glamour

And the grim in their chipped tooth from candy, from mocking air

That howls in a dissonance that one can tell pretty fairly that

Darling, this mirror isn’t that immense to show how large

The scars are, as if recounting stories of a dauntless knight

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But seemingly, through the loose seams of the night

And graced periods in between flickers of the candle light,

There could be hope – or no hope or in between hoping and not hoping,

There is a demise that is overlapping, and you see me there

Over a shabby bed, and say how wonderful I look in my repose

Heavy eyes that fret in the dark as if to lose balance between reason and hysteria

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Outside the air is stiff, and my hands are rigorous

I confessed to the heavens that I have grown weary because

This search is intricate in between pulsations and cycles of breath

But look at all the people, apart from what plinth I stand

They seem to be joyously content with every thing at hand

Torturous and beleaguering, for naught – these words do not make any sense

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For no amount of words could make me say in merriment

How seclusion and existence have close stories and fables

If the night is white, then what mirth do your eyes hold?

That I cannot hold with mine? Do eyes have arms?

If they do, then mine flails in delusion – I have deluded myself

From the thing that binds people to their own fate and that is hope

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If death is as easy as skipping rocks, but profound in explanation

Of how the ripples appear and reappear in between pelicans

That glide astride but never athwart my neck to lacerate or

Asphyxiate at least, then someone change my perspective

These eyes have seen maybe the latter but not the last

In psychedelic dreams and monochromatic reality

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Who would be enamored to such miserable being?

I shout for attention but receive a cold silence

An absence of sound that one can compare to a pestilence

That festers a smile and breaks it into splinters

All the seasons turned and went and I am jaded in a winter

That does not bequeath glacial vim – only a cold smolder inside