Tinkers Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

3 notes delet edit
Tinkers
Slowly, these chimeras
The quagmire in the burning of the hours
Trapped between the frivolous arms
Of the clocks spell nothing
But cessations.

What are we in this
Mad skirmish?
The strength that sojourns
In between sprightly phases
And dead pavements?
What are we
But the victims of
These stable deaths,
These inevitable ends.

As I sit here, blasé
And drunken with pertinacity,
I now give
The typewriter a sigh as cold
As November spent in front
Of screeching tombs
And crying epitaphs.

Not even the gods
Dared try to fathom
What they have
Tinkered with
Their hands.