Malaise Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Friend, I was told
Of an unsparing melee:

I’ve not a single skepticism -
Only inveigling chauvinism.
I am impaled to my bed,
Like the clock that is safely dangling
At the cynosure of the pallid wall
With flustered insects.
I do not know what I am doing.
My idiosyncrasy is hapless,
I am a naked flower in the shrouds
Of sheathed thorns.
I do not know where to belong,
I am a reticent owl in a barrage
Of screeching, elegiac bats.
And I do not know what form
Is this that I assume.
I am a shriveled moth,
In a carousel of humans
Circumnavigating this downtrodden
Field you call the Earth.
They are frantic.
I am apathetic.
Lethargic.
What frenzied fervor do these people hold
That I cannot usurp it with my hands?
And the people saunter aimlessly in packs,
Their eyes are burning in the submission.
Their paws are prickly upon the serrated grass.
These wolves – a pack of wolves,
Will tatter the shoal that covers the ocean
Of my unconscious states.
I fathom, this is how it works.
They take you,
And they siphon your blood,
And demolish your flesh,
Incinerate your bones,
Indict your dreams,
Until nothing is left,
But malaise.