The Hours Are Intimate Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

There are austere mountains at the head of my bed,
And they let out hoarse cries in the night –
The night; I hear the weeping of the clocks,
I can hear the footsteps of time – trampling, pacing
The halls outside my room; the penury of the heavens
Falls uncouthly on my face, the avarice of quintessence
I found among men is blank, plagued and heavy with a blight;
My blithe meanders far away from me, whence the wind blows
From the handle of the train, the train that rivets the rails,
The rails that mesh the train to the roots of the Earth,
The Earth that passes on through my lithe skin where
She was once pressed, now gone, and only the impressions
Make love and utter silent promises in the night
Where I long for her, even in the arduous drudgery –
When will one find me here, in the sordidness, in the vacuity
Of my own vessel; I was a vassalage among her docks,
Among her cities, inside her worlds of scents and gossamer lips,
And brusque epitomes of her absence, of her truancy –
Now, the frailty of bones that fail to unite, are coiled by the desolation
And with that, I am intimate with myself alone,
The melancholy opens the door to my room,
It lays beside me, like she is in my possession –
This obscured obsession must cease from where the tides fail to cede balefully
The melancholy picks me up in my drunkenness,
It renders me naked, it scrutinizes my body
And makes love with it with its own eyes,
Its eyes of vestal superiority – the walls watch in jealousy,
In an envy that sets stones into stark stars inscribed upon walls;
The moans of sadness enthuse me to become whole with it,
I feel complete and unscathed with its bandaging caress –
And in the morning, the dejection wakes me up,
And makes me drink yet another glass of my weary sanity,
My flesh is ripped from bones, and bones ripped from the soul
The soul disengaged from all the people, for I am alone with all of
The beautiful people in my mad world that spins without direction,
That recedes without time and physics – I am one with my loneliness,
I drink it like water, and need it like the air I breathe out fetidly
And so this, another night, I am waiting for soliloquy to open the door
Of my room, I am submissive, and I am ready for it to take me by the hand
And throw me into oblivion – where everyone disappears and emerges
Right before my very first fractured grin.