Jet Black: 3 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Monotonously, laying at the bedside city
Of the bugs that jitter across jolting moods
Tossing and turning, like a stale salad of emotions
Look at this night, it is jet black, for the all-seeing
The essence of a man, lurks, squanders
In a fast-paced spiteful intent, intent with cement
Intent with cement does not make any sense,
What makes sense? A man in a jet black suit, yes?
How’s sensibility treating you?
It must have been serenading you with its nobility
The nimble dexterity of plagiarizing hands that copy words
From tongues that wail in the rift of the tomorrow that does not exist.
Petrify me, like a willowed tree whereas
The temperature dropped, like the jaws and fangs of a menace
The grimaced menace, the grievances of the culprit
Are heard not far enough from here though, not far enough
I catapult my emotions, like an avalanche, a landslide
With a city, a rushing city proudly sitting and nevertheless
Waiting for the memoirs, or the signs maybe, of the upcoming trend
If not so, the man in the black suit shall speak, brandishing his dagger-like tongue
Scented candles are vile, uncanny and preposterous wick
Tangible pain of the jet black suit, in the laundry spinning weakly
And the sun, almost drenching it from the worries and a wrinkle free seam
I could fit almost easily inside the jet black suit, and I will once again inspire myself
Partitioned by the buses and trains and stupid engines roaring
My chambers are revving, increasing each gear for almost eternity
I am drawn to the closest thing to touch the nuclear abyss
Nuke me, or at least create a holocaust in me, deceitful clowns of murder
I am a reservoir of hatred and all that is black,
Or maybe, when the silo has run dry, I will spring forth to life again,
Like a garden of bounty, like a garden of bounty.
Now, the only bounty I have, is what appears to be the price over my headless figure.