Filled To The Brim With Murk Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The clock speaks

The unutterable morning,

Verve with the breath spawning

Hope – elegiac hope,

The trees are not silent

Standing by the fences, arms like tridents,

The rapacious, cold drizzled wind

Crawls cautiously underneath

The aluminum folds of doors

-

The night is exultant as it turned

Another page of swathing defeat,

And so to fill a man, shall one fill his soul

With the liquor sifted away from

Ripe blessed, sun-kissed abundances

Wringed from swollen necks,

I am filled with the liquor of the night,

And I am drunk by the turning of dusk to dawn –

Perennial bliss, come no further, higher than a sigh’s altitude

Hallowed, the saintly monikers, with this abandonment,

There is plenitude within.