Eyes In The Time Of Stained Mirth Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

There’s a wick,
To light these eyes,
Jauntier than streetlights, fertile bombast
The aurora sleeps suspended in dreams

If there is anything,
As sinful as hands, thy fledgling hands
Then that would be of ripe eyes,
Eyes of blatant lies and shameful candor

The eyes, tender with intentions,
Of desultory deceptions,
Liberated by the riddance of the peccadilloes
That are not exultant, they are somber in the dreadful presence

Of the specter that lurks,
Within the rancor inside the presumptuous superstition
And of course, the bedlam caused by assiduous sins that tinker disaster,
Display in pedestals, a havoc that cannot be tamed by adroit prayers

The voices inside eyes, and the conclusions
Are irrevocable unless abandoned by incredulous derision
By the tapestry hangs the plush verdant fields of leniency
Cradled by the cadence of exultant mauve lips and frothy tulips

Eyes, cleanse them in the rivers,
Purge them with the scythe of reapers
The contamination is insidious upon birth,
Should we try to be saintly sons of mirth?