The Vainglorious & The Deaf Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

So a kid scraped his biological surface,
Like a man submerged in flames
And the sonata stretched like scowling faces
Waning in the simper’s fluster

There’s a gist in his demise
That scathes the priest,
And the saints march like worn out slaves
Your sermon is obsolete and my faith is weak

There’s no memory in death,
Only mourning, so to mourn its passing
So when I rest asylum in the cold hands
Of what seems to claim hopes, dreams and last dances

Then you shall meet me at the gates,
At the gates of pearly whites, or strobe lights of fumes
I don’t know, for literature has confused its true features
Reading too much, has poisoned my thoughts

I prance too much on tombs,
And find myself coiled in wombs,
And the ageing is in reverse, the reverse of all forwards
Braving the storm, the storm of all cowards

God does not play dice,
But He does play with something that wagers,
More than what the self can offer
And when it is lost, it conjectures a father dying in the winter’s tooth

The acquisition of requiems and eulogies
Are defamation in the sordid fancy
So when I die, I don’t want roses on my corpse
Only avaricious settlements dancing with seven planets

There are no doors in departures
Only hurting, hence the soul cringes
The doors are badly beaten, with creaking hinges
Forsaken openings put up for dead ends

So again, in death, there is no recovery
Only the flickering of memories
Then there would be no memories, only sins
Sins of how forgetful creatures we are.

Do not mention my name in prayers,
For prayers fall on craters with cobwebbed wishful thinking
Ere, mention my name in curses or profanities
That way, you’ll discern this poem’s vanities.

Revel in my passing, not weep like rivers
For to revel in my ascension is to gaze at the faltering light
The light that would soon claim me, after I am below the ground
I am deaf 6 feet under, you do not make perfect sense anymore.