Beau In The Evening, Abhorred In The Morning Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Good morning to impunity,
With the face that has gone weary
Under the lamps that are sleeping in the torn city
Of a war that resists beyond reprieve
There is such desolation felt in the morning that grieves.

My heart is as lonely as a train,
Maimed in a station where the rails twine
With the granite, the gravel, locked in a cemented angst
That the pangs of the heart cannot be resurfaced
In the repugnance of water over the oil in midnight.

So quip, your every enticing witticism
For in the morning, it is sure that your strength flows
Endlessly, stagnantly, in a river that is appalling beyond sight
So now, tell me this: Why do you hate me in the morning?
Is it my voice that forever sends memories in the vacant room?

And you would be, I suppose, muted in the sand
Whereas, silence will be the closest friend of your fiendish
Departure; and I would be bereft, beside a petrified tree
Whose leaves are not patrician, but sultry and trite
So tell me, does this amuse you? That I feel surly in the Sun?

I cry in the morning, this is true,
And I am not ashamed to admit it to any man who
Possesses a stalwart heart, barricaded with gallantry
All of whose exploits amount to nothing but wine, burlesque queens,
Naked bodies and vanities; such stain held in the soul.

Yes, I love you in any time of the day:
May it be the equinox nor the twilight of tangerine hopes,
May it be the fortnight where I could not sleep as I writhe
Infinitely on my death bed, feigning cancer only to inspire sympathy
Any time told by the clock, I will be needing you.

I contemplate on calling you, so as to tame
What savagery my yearning for you has transformed me;
In the night, you would answer, with your breath as a paragraph
Of what should have been told earlier, for you do not know what
You have, until it is gone, in anticipation of winter between autumn and spring.

If you are reluctant to answer, “Why do you hate me in the dawn? ”
Should the dusk beget also, the same reply of silence and oblivion?
Tell me, I have a heart for an escutcheon, to embellish what love
I have for you, spare this blundering fool, asinine in his trembling feet
Shuffling like cards across a gambling table headed by God.

Would you kindly answer me with full sincerity,
“Do you love me only in the evening? ”
Where the night is as lonely as your own, sleeping body
In a slumber, away from your friends and activities,
Where you lay there motionless and think only about me,

Why? Why do you only love me in the night?
Don’t you have full courage to love me fully, wholly?
Where we come to realize the truth of our folly?
That love should have no reason, no season to embark on
Just two souls, arbitrating across the plains created for us alone.

What despairs me, is that in the night,
You come to know my name, my dreams, my fears
It is in the night that I have the audacity to tell you,
In veracity, that I am a man that needs a woman,
Not just any woman, I need you, though you are deaf and mute.

What dejects me is that, you forget me in the noon time spring
Where the mirage suffocates me entirely, to the most of your liking
Why do you show such enmity towards me in the morning?
Is it my strut? Is it my hair? Is it the salt on my skin?
Why do you desolate me all the time, in the morning?

What terrifies me is that, you have the strength
To bury me deep, in the mortuary of impending forgetfulness
Where am I to go, I only know one woman, and that is you
I only grasp that you love me in the night, hate me in the morning
Is this true? If I did the same, what would you do?