Owl's Hoarse Cry Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

With a flourish of colors
And exuberance
The owl is lead into
A thick and resilient forest.

The mist cloys the foliage,
And the hallucinations
Are one with the mirage -
Almost as if
Making love to the saccharine
Cacophony of the cicadas at night.

The tigers are asleep
From the drudgery of waiting.
The lions are drunk
With their relentless power
And savagery.
The vultures are lurking endlessly,
Hovering from one place to another
In search for the remains
Of hapless victims.
During the night,
The beasts are unassailable.
They are deeply ensconced in their
Fluttering abyss,
In their clocks that have no arms
And in their senescence that defies
Sense in what science has
To foretell.

The stars scintillate in derision,
And the owl sits there
Perched atop, emblazoned on the bosom
Of the forest with hoots
That are monotonously sepulchral.
The air of despair looms
And the shores,
The overture of the forest’s noise
And the hoarse cries of
The cajoling felines at night
Are swoon over by the vicarious
Song of angst.

You will never know
What an owl says.
You will never decode
Nor amass in fathoms
What he has in his round,
Halcyon eyes.

He sits there.
Petrified.
Unseen.
Heard, yet unnoticed.
This is how it works.