Poem-A-Week

Every man is created at night/ when he stumbles into the trees/ roots thirsty
for young boys' blood/ eager to devour the hands they use to pray/ the 
Jungle/ anchored in traditions/ rips their lungs out/ inflicts an infection they 
won't survive/ tosses them out/ with addictions/ boiled blood/ and
mismanagement of emotions/ their hands made of rusted iron/ their anger a
heat wave/ un chubasco sobre su frente/ work/ work/ work/ the word loses 
itself in their soiled hands/ they walk out of the forest/ enlighten to new/ 
pleasures/ there's nothing better/ nothing better than what this drink brings/ 
intoxication reminds them of what it was like before they walked/ before
god's shadow harbored their fears/ their bodies/ forgotten in the field where
their mothers live/ sacred in their hands/ but men are born at night/ when they stumble
into the cracks of a poorly dimmed start.