Surrounded By Thieves Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Bereft of love
There they were: the lost populace
The headless crowd anticipating divine intervention.
The gods must be asleep in their lithe beds
As we are awake over prickly ones.
Bereft of meaning
As she traverses this land of wretched opus.
The crevasses are gorged with vileness,
The establishments are filled with people – heartless inhabitants.
The places to go are shunted:
The pavements have folded like last cards,
The corners are occupied by the shadows
That make love as the hours, the days pass
By like wildfire upon city buoys.
Bereft of time
Time the thief,
The clock and its ravenous machinism:
A sonorous sentence to grave losses.
The arms of the clocks: unsparing and stagnant.
Relentless pilferers.
We are surrounded by thieves.