To The Desolated Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The pictures froze
In a guileful dance.
The Sun held an acrimony
In the devious guise of
The morning’s thwarted breath.

Topple the towers,
Burn the cities,
Purge the embers,
And vilify the lilies.

The compelling poignancy of the
Fell blades and the escutcheons
That carried the tarnished names
Of the exploited saints and seraphs -
Where in this encumbrance will
We find comfort?

The heavens breathe over us
In a fashion of the avaricious light.
All our mirth have been long flushed
Out of our mouths, out of our sight.

The gods failed to hear us,
The wretched obsequiousness,
The subterfuge of the jesters,
That trembled in a height that wuthers
Cascade upon us -
Building a height that falters,
So we would brace this fall
And anticipate splintered skulls
That our bones would fracture upon
The velocity of this furious plummet.

The gods are intact in unshaken slumbers,
We are slowly burning in a rampant flame.
The putrid havoc that ushers from the ethers,
They have long plotted are deaths – we are never the same.