Saintly Contrite Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Ashen tongue that tasted the squalor,
Young in skin, old in pallor
Tailor made stories unfold
Like gambits of the young, lies of the old

I could write to say, flimsy and bane
“A fool thinks himself wise, but then, is he sane? ”
Under a considerably less fortunate wreck,
There lies a time under pretentious specks

Spectral mist buoys by the vale,
If there is hope in this, then let it unveil
Itself, the gloom and the shades are far too young,
As if the night sticks its shriveled, dull tongue

Look at what we have become,
Denying amongst ourselves, confessing among some
The austere omen declaims one fate,
That a man has only one destiny, sometimes early – other times late

If there is a word in heaven, and a scripture in inferno
The purgatory spins madly in a world of vertigo
The demons infiltrate me in my sleep, cold, fortnight swings
The saints were sleeping in my wakefulness, the sunlight stings

The pronged clouds above were abashed
From the mesh of the bloodcurdling sighs of a God, unmatched
Science, explain my faith, faith explain my science
Adherence thwart what chagrin lies in my constituted defiance.