Nero Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

And now the king,
Sits past the thrones and thorns
Of the city’s past history
My memory

Hangs by the noose
Of the flaring frozen Sun
And when he casts his fingers
As clean as slates

We are filthy as slaves
And the fire in the eyes
That evoke deception
And no redemption of good intentions

The great fire of the Soul,
Disembodies from the whole
Mute-mental hypocrisy adored
Surveys the city, the city in the rumble

Kerosene spews from mouths, reduced the city to a rubble
And the alleged arsonist, claims his prize
What fuels the arson,
Rots the person inside

The death of memories in incinerators
It is made public, with burning pebbles
And cedars diminished to ashes
And supple skin dwindled to burnt corpses

It seems to please him,
The scene has first class seats
Applause resounding midair, bolstered to etudes
The trampling swift-foot, and the triumph

Soon came to an end, with blemished souls
Denouncing, “What an artist has died in me! ”
The alleged tomb, stands proudly,
In the noxious womb, curled merely
We’re never good enough.