Punching Raindrops Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

How senseless can we possibly be?
Half-man, half-beast
With a skin far from the sun-kissed
The frail rain coating the man from the back of the pain

The bulwarks of the brute and carnal flesh,
And the calloused hands of conceit
The dreaded day that he will rise,
Not from the grave, but from the memories

Punching raindrops,
Counting the days in shredded rooftops,
Absolve the expulsion of better glacial steps
Than adorn the feeble sighs of trembling mouths and bones

Cantankerous misfortunes,
Of the troubled child in disdainful convolution
Then, words shall tell you the insurgency,
That you shouldn’t be punching raindrops all night

The drizzle feels electric,
Falling on my scrawny, fading self
If the Sun flickered too much,
Then photographs would have been obscure by the moment

So I was waiting,
For luck to turn in arbitrary roads,
Or for it to resolve using its whim,
Until then, I’ll be punching raindrops

As it fell like fragments of glass,
Slicing my clenched fists,
The mixture of rain and blood, thirsty for meaning
Quench the thirst, enrapture the fallen.