Jet Black / 2 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I indicted the moon, and trapped
The suitcase fired up, like luggages spinning madly
Mishapped, shapeshifting figured polygons
Or metamorphed sadness, condescending liaisons.

The pocket and the seams, paved gaps
Gaps like spaces in between cities or tooth shattered
Fragmented, like a scented coffin swimming past the sea of dispute
Mute math, mental english look at the flailing morning

Sugary lips of bittergourd rejuvenation wrinkled by fate
The coffee laced execution of varying flavors
In the palette, I lust for vivid shades, not dark hues
Yet, I forgot, I am jet black, I do not have a heart

But yes I do have a heart,
In the contrary of dreams, contradicting fellowmen
Look at the augury, the omen of lustful singers
The symphony breaks, like shattered glass on cottony chest

Enlightened with the darkness, opacity, there is no light here
Disenchanted, with a disgruntled gun-wielding grimace
A face, nevertheless, a distortion in the sea of obscurity
Insecure thoughts are kept inside a vault, the cranial vault

Pole vaulting across children with severed tongues
With eyes laced with the blood of what appears to be
The vestige of the Jet black, I am in a trance
I lubricate my hands with my own sin, my own kindred

I told you a while ago
Suits, jet black suits inspire me
The howling of the vagabond vedure
Nurtured by the baffling puzzle of the night’s embrace

I have a profound soul, probably not enthused
Centuries shy of a man inside the clenched world
Oblate spheroid, more like it, I am lost in the abyss
In the abyss, in the abyss, I am defiled by my own color

I am not vibrant, nor do I share the same skin
With all the snakes that slither and coil, preying around intentions
I do not need to slither like a snake, or coil like an insipid spiral staircase
What I need, is a jet black suit in which I could fit through the seams.