The inamorata is planted
Beyond in this distance
That even the measures
Cannot decipher in transatlantic fathoms
The establishments fill,
The train stations grovel
And time falters in specks of
Lissom time.
I am flummoxed in between
People who smile the most eager,
In front of bedazzling women
And auspicious men
It is in the moments that
You think of a heaven:
Farcical beyond construction,
And nonchalant beyond destruction
A moribund bequeathing.
The windows close morosely
As I am left here, alone with everybody.
Windsor Guadalupe Jr
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/alone-with-everybody-2/
