Existentialism Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

In one moment of the hour glass,
With the coarse sand trickling down
The narrow impasse, with an impassive face for a crowd,
We find out that among the headless crowd,
We eat the aeons and sleep inside the gears of the clock
As we efface each aurora of the Sun
Flashed by its feverish corona

In one moment worth a dime,
And another picture suspended in time,
The clockwork tether that entangles us,
Conjoins us to the world, the world of lascivious gesture,
The world of cruel intention, the world of saddening vice grip
And the world of ubiquitous omission,
Will ludicrously allow us to ponder over the thought
That in our sleep, we do not make time,
We find repose in the hands of the clocks
But never in the hands of a lover, a friend, or another lost soul.

So in the passing of cars, blaring with horns and glaring light
Filled with thorns, and the first born kiss of embryonic delight,
This will pass, solitude will come like a gambler dealing cards
And a thief will come, plundering lives and scathing hearts
We will never find away across the impenetrable, lull mist
We will never find the door out of this labyrinth, so it is best
To put on your best naivety in the fashion of patrician empires –
Kings, queens, knights of weak valor and chivalry,
Put them all together – an imbecilic carnival

Lost in the arms of the brazen young lover,
Circumnavigated across the spherical eyes of one true heart
In the time of sun-kissed diamonds and bloodcurdling memory
The aversion of one more night in two days will always tell so much
Of an allegory that is mundane in a dream, but surreal in one more breath,
In one more life as a human, one more death as a putrid soul
That wreaks the stench of a sepulchral, vulterine desolation
As you saunter past one prism to another,
One more irrelevant pole after one more winter dying in the summer
No more hands clasped, no more chagrined mothers and bleak fathers

Dreary nights,
Soft spoken skewered light in the pronged sky
Wretched and defiled by the dire need of a dirge
That will wake me up in the middle of the purging streak of heaven
As I undulate with blood, and topple with miserable weight
I have found this, in one lifetime too long for an eternity of austerity
Existentialism, hath gone nowhere but the mind of one hopeful
Maudlin soul with eviscerated wounds.