The conscious sinner and the saint crossed paths
to articulate the differences in their existence hitherto.
Questions were dawned on the sinner’s head
for the ways he took in the dreadful course of the tread.
The musings that intrigue the purpose of life
were exchanged for a fraction of a time right then.
The untimely burial of the inconsiderate fears
promised the men the freedom of shedding no tears.
The sinner asked the saint about the meaning of all
that portrays the significance of being humane and vague.
He wished to know of the forms that emotions take-
like ego and farce hopes with all the goodness at stake.
The answers are dispersed as little parts all along the way
you have to look a little deeper and fool your despair.
The sun might exude an eternal glimpse of shine ,
does it stop the clouds from hiding the light of the rays?
Fluff of that ego build up and hide the rawness of love,
but then the winds of yesteryear touch our lives and the clouds up above.
The weight of the egoistic clouds build up to the point of threshold
and they explode with thunder and tears for the lovers to behold.
Did you notice the kid with the paper plane dreams?
The crease in his flyer imperfect and rightfully dull.
What if the plane flew all the way to distant lands?
What if he could never get it again in his hands?
His minimal hopes that it would fall down again
in the thrust of the downdraft wind was considered a fruitful gain.
He longs for the plane to slide down and land
does it make the flight a failure? or does it make him a man?
The stars that align in the dark of the sky
are ghosts of useless million year old suns far away.
But the rage of the burning is still intense to see
and what magic did they take in for letting us be?
Twinkle is a disguise of a beguiling witch
who reveals the gleam to stoop the darkness behind.
But the darkness is a necessity in the cusp of lives
and that is how the charming and deadly light thrives.
After all this tirade, the sinner muted in his own thoughts
wanted to reflect a question back to the wise old saint.
The wise old saint looked bleak and broken right now
for the stories of morals were lies masked as truth somehow.
The madness to rush in and fade out
is a state of being we love to be.
Desire, a drive to want everything and all
with a conscious lucidity of needing nothing at all.
Holding onto a breakable string
greedy yet scared of the tensile rupture.
Judging only the weakness of the hitch
and ignoring the weight of the doubts we carry.
Tipped over in few of the many walks of lives
we went on in search of answers and lies.
The dreadful journey to nowhere to seek
the significant parts of our soul were weak.
A messy mountain of heap filling our vulnerable hearts
held the slippery suicide points of our destined parts.
Hang on warriors, hang on to the rope
cling on to the farce promises of hope.
When we leave that gentle grasp to death
we would cherish the fall with all our breath.
The madness to rush in and fade out is strong
when there are million other lives to do it with us along.
Let us all figure out what beauty is
from every untouched left out souls.
The lady who needs no gloss on her lips
definitely needs no swaying zero size hips.
I’d wish for an existence where everyone is blind
and look for beauty in all the nuances God left behind.
The girl without braces and crooked teeth
settled like pressed and unpressed piano keys.
The multi-tone syllables birthed from her vocal cords
are symphonies of her depth played in a melancholy chord.
The boy with a pair of squinted eyes
might look loony today, disguising all the lies.
What if the disoriented eye is to perceive the beauty in us
and it had stuck there with no hope and “crooked” thus.
The man with a regretfully withdrawn hairline
and a stubble of copper colored beard so fine.
Lost strands of hair tangled up in the blocked sink hole
are gossiping all about his troubles that murder him whole.
The snot of the kid that creeps up behind his joyous display
after a let out laugh that overpowers the cunning forms of dismay.
It is a proof of something that holds on to forever and now,
while the doubts are cautiously hanging in the stranger’s look of love.
The parts of beauty in this dreadful existence called life
are abundant yet they lack the shiny sharp of the knife.
If at all it was sharp and glowing with a sheen
I’d wish to cut all our hearts out to make the purpose clean.
The ugly stray dog, the half-electrified crow
and the imp who masters the circus show.
Man boob Bob and flat front Mary
might all be lovely on the contrary.
The rude judgmental choices we take
to look into beauty are illusive and fake.
And when the mirror reflects our ugliness in all
we should also think about the rusty nail that holds it on the wall.