Jet Black / 4 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I kissed the ceilings and the concrete walls
The walls are breathing with wrenches gripping the lungs viciously
That wither with cigarette, nicotine on fire and tar
The lark howls, does not chirp, loses its sight on the preying effervescent night

I wore my suit just to give myself an arid moniker
Look, the dusk matches the suit, the jet black suit
The seams again, where thoughts rush as if assuming an expressway
A freeway, thoughts bare-naked or in lingerie, malingering

Sweat, I can feel the sweat, the sweat that tastes like kerosene
As the propane wreaks, shouts in unison, as if trying to denounce its faith
I am about to explode, as if a malformed turret, in a ravaging sequence
Condescendingly, stars descend, almost kneeling in front of the jet black suit

The jet black suit gains respect, it is time to bask in revelry
A lady in a lilac dress comes to crash the party upon which we feast
The feast has been festered with thoughts uncharted, uncharted with fear
The jet black suit left, with its charm hanging by its pocket

And the handkerchief lacks the luster it used to have
The man wearing the jet black suit, impaled to the ground
Coming from the sky, with a ferocious velocity
Almost dosing off with a lethal silence, a poorly prejudiced silence

And the lady in a lilac dress, with eyes conceiving harsh judgment
Have nonetheless deprived the man in a jet black suit
In seeking light, amidst the opaque statuesque opulence.