City Of Angels Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I moseyed around the lull, tranquil soul
Of a cloud filled to the brim with the breath
Of seraphs – there is comfort in between gasps
And blank, dead air of discontent and array
As if askew like lightning dirks piercing the
Boundless sky; There is life in between death,
And there, I found the quintessence, the pristine marvel
Of a face I found in the city of angels

Her face was vindictive underneath the furlough
Of winter – the abundance of summer is present
In her eyes that luster the most poised among the stars
If you catch her scent, then it should be known
As if slicing one soul to a half – in reality and in the wraithlike
Her feet dandified in the heavens, and her prose
In words and a voice of poetry, by far even the deities
Have been long jealous about the sanctimonious aura
That she possesses; the salt of her skin accentuated underneath
The august Sun – and the nighttime seems so long
In her jet black hair that hides the Sunlight in resiliency,
In savvy and a blind resplendence,

Beyond a shadow of a doubt,
The shrouds of deep, plunging mist surround me –
Inquisitively, smothering me with queries, and one,
I encounter all too well as if the next of kin,
“Why do you write about her so much? ” –
The beam I let out must have deluded them into mockery,
Confident enough to weather their sharp judgment of eyes like shrapnel,
Pithily uttered, “Perhaps she is, and will be a city of angels.”