The Die Is Cast Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

In front of a typewriter
I am 19 minutes away
From death.
10: 00 PM in the cynosure
Of a wintry season,

Here I am again,
With sequestered dreams,
I guffaw like a crow
In the searing night.

I surveyed the room
That encumbered me.
The furniture did not breathe
Or even so,
They were holding their breaths
In an exile of clacking fingers
Upon an ebony machinery.

The die is cast
And the scent of each
Trouble lingered upon
My chapped mouth.

The die is cast
As I thump each of the typewriter’s
Fragile features,
The death of the erstwhile
People remains intact
Within my adroit pillars.

Banished.
All of your words are void
As you coil upon yourself
In a mad stance of sheer terror
And mendaciloquence,
You do not make sense
Like the rain in an exhilarating Summer.

The die is cast.