Last Words Of A Ballerina Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

A tulip on her skived lips,
Tucked safely inside the depths
Of her sapid orifice that held
Closely that it has evaded the mundane,
Is her tongue of drenched, prolix narrative.

I am her audience, among the crowd -
Shunned into the deserted avenues of her
City – the city that I rest asylum!
Her effeminate, lithe stance,
Her posing threat to the delicacy of my shambled
integument. Take it lightly on me, ballerina,
I do not have a whole lifetime to evanesce
Towards the plush gardens of your baleful ecstasy.

You have galloped all across the fire,
You have sunken deep within the Earth,
And you are vying to resurface -
To disengage from the quagmired waters
That do not ebb with a contagious mire.
You are the fire,
You are the ire of the heavens!
You are the distorted images
Of moist and dewy glasses of redemption.
And so, they have long taken your flesh
In this consummating perdition.
You are a supercilious prying flower
That I entertain inside my own shoddy world.
This did not give you life.
They have stolen your satin,
They have pillaged your swan-like costume,
They have imitated your swooning grace.
And you have died,
Right before you executed
Your very first modest maneuver in mid-air
As you said, the phrase that will be a mordant finale
Of your sepulchral gyration:
Hereon, nonchalantly, you have screamed:
”I am one with them! ”

And from then,
I have had a trifle morose of doubt
In the heavens,
The firmaments that are haughty and uncouth.
You will still billow in my immense night,
In my hollow chasms,
Like the last words
You have uttered with pure bliss.