Vicarious Constellations Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

It was a night where
The mouths of the stars
Gnash.

I, holding a cup
Of trembling coffee.
What a baleful fix -
Something to keep me
Alive in the
Ruckus of lies.

Of arrogance.
Of filth
And spiteful things.

I used to keep little
Photographs of timid
Memories

But then
As I bawl
And yield the distance
Of the stars

I wince
As I am ephemerally
Woven with rue.

The modest deaths,
To write everything
At 1: 00 in the morning
In front of a typewriter
Gave me so much
Vigor for a fraction
Of me lies still
Upon these morose shades
Of verses.

The clocks whisper the
Lullabies of sleep.
The stars are fastened
To their stations
And the constellations
Dangle like ornaments
In the stark azure.

I make no sense
In between the tiny
Conversations of the stars,
And forever, I shall
Let this raze all that
Remains in the past
That held no remorse
In taking
All
That I have.

Yes, the stars
Are asleep in their stations.

Meanwhile,
I am awake
Because godly intentions
Are in need
Of a grand redemption.