The Solace In The River Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The godly feet, tired in this glint
That dislimns one by one until
The stars are dead in the silence.
The squirming miasma of the moon
On the petulant river,
The cherry-blossomed scent
Of the aeons that burn in the flames
Of the cold brook
The winch grimaces
As the auburn thicket of blood
Singes in the palace ensconced
By the breaths of the muse that petrifies
The foliage with the mere touch
Of hands sifting through the madness.

The stones – nameless, frigid in the plethora
The peccadilloes of the azure are engraved
Upon each lip of the stones that are restless
Beside the river.
The wind – plush, scented vilely as if to turn
The sapid resiliency into a squalor.
The night morosely coils the slumbering
As their nostalgic lucidity luridly marches
Through the languor of the sheets.
In this river of fire,
Of madness that relishes
In the delight of the macabre

The stones rattle,
The trees come to life
As the image of the moon is trapped
Inside the rivers
Never to be effaced.