10: 19 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

It is the 8th year,
And the whirring gears clash
And croon the sounds of impending festivities
The clock spells 10: 19 in the evening,
And I yield the distance of the blue, shivering stars
That are emblazoned like lost souls in the sky –
The distance in between stars, the most unbearable,
The steps engraved on the sand like epitaphs are immutable
And the stern defeat in the skirmish is irreversible,
Tell me, to be lost and never found, is it inevitable?
For I feel as hapless as a child naked in a storm,
Or as disheartening as an abused rose of once flamboyant flair,
Now, emptied panache, I am but a shriveled one –
But tell me, by the station,
I am the most alone, for I feel as if,
I am a bare train, asleep under the rain:
Is there someone out there,
To come and restore me?