Resistance Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Out of an insurgent slumber
That was harangued
Hacked
Slashed and sloshed
With baleful dreams,
I opened my eyes
To the sanguine photographs
Of the shrouded avenues.

The mistral cacophonies,
The howling of the lycanthrope,
The marring of the warfares
Have ebbed

And the quieted photographs
Are now sent into an abeyance.
They no longer trifle with a morose
Malady.

I woke up one morning
Swathed with such mystical
Nonchalance
Or perhaps I now revolve
Around oblivion
I know there is such a place
A blithe cavalry
But like a sealed epistle,
I do not know what is inside of it,
And I do not desire to
Meander with such
A pretense embellished in an augured
Debris.

At some point,
I permit myself to err
To indulge in such a preposterous gambit
That I can hear
The crowds laugh at me.
The gods castigate me
With every flamboyant pang
I hold, too intrepid.

Over the repugnant waters,
The impalpable miasmas remain
There and the old wintry roads
Convolute into such rancid mazes.

I’ve harbored strength
To bastinado the shadows.
These tinkered weaponries
Are state of the art,
And they will never
Be acquiescent to the
Enervated struggle.