Drunken Child In The Night's Austere Chest Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

As I was in a paroxysm
Of a venomous gale
Impregnated with the
Vindication of the uncouth
Clocks,

I heard eerie groans,
Mutilated cries from the streets.
The dogs were shaken
And agitated,
As the scent of the Christmas air
Loomed over the sleeping abodes.

The snarls, the dissonance
Crept like wildfire - hound
After hound,
Idle home after idle home,
And unto me.

I mustered all courage to look
Outside in the night’s austere chest
And I was mortified to see
A child who was wearing a verde cap,
Cloaked in the night - a ragamuffin
Drunkard at the juvenile age of
14. I knew who he was, and he
Was drunk with the wrath of liquor.
His kindred carried him -

A drunken child in
The night’s austere chest,
The heavens are filled with quagmire
That plummets away from my solstice’s crest.
How fortunate,
A child numb in physiologies
Cradled by the concerned populace.

But what now,
In this stark night of
Wishful sympathies?

I have been dead for 8 years,
And no one ever dared
To carry me away from
The streets,
Away from the night’s
Austere chest
And onto a field
Where all the dead souls
Are brought to life.