Erstwhile Pastel-Hued Indulgence Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The seas were encroached
By leonine waves hurled
As if from a den of submerged lions.
You are a golden slice from the twirling Sun,
In a haze under duress
Of a nothingness of hope
In a totally numb crassness.
The shabbiest of homes lie underneath
The palms of the cove.
The trees sway to the direction
Of the asymmetrical noon time breeze,
And midnight bliss,
Of restive ponds that lure
The fish out of the water –
Rendering it naked,
Destitute.

The furtive disclosure
Of the moon’s final breath
Last night was thrashed with ineptness.
Tears – null and void,
Still, my prayers are more hopeful
Than decrepit, sullen and fragmented.
You are the labyrinth.
Your eyes are labyrinthine,
Your lips of once pink paper-like structures
Convalesce to a descending manner of putrid
Filth of lies and cesspools of putrefacted dream factories.
Your hands of one fluid truth,
Are now flimsy oceans of lies and quagmire.
The mendaciloquence is the art of war,
And I am not a soldier – I am a captive.
You are a golden slice of the Sun, yes,
But the Sun will not last – science has predicted.
You are the supernova,
I am but one, shivering star in the cold, moribund distance
Of the taciturn fate that lies in between stars,
And the distances I yield whenever I think
Of all the dreams and unrests.
I dither over the languid motions
Of my arms that try to write
In a monotonous monologue of pastel-hued indulgence.
But not anymore.
Not anymore.