Conscious sinner and the saint

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.

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Terracivilized during a rainy day

Settling down on the chaos of life,
he survived in the elixir of his humor and pride.
He was wrong and stupid in the best of his days,
his wealth and breath hung up on his euphoric craze.

Pushing up the rod and button of steel,
he opened the umbrella to cease the feel.
The feel of the graceful falling rain,
he doubt that his touch might inflict the drops some pain.

Grieving about the heartless souls
that wanders by the edge of holes.
Holes drawing and sucking the essence of him
he wasn’t sure of his place and his tear glands filled up to brim.

All that he has seen and all that he has ever been
was like pure drops of the storm clinging on the clothe-line stream.
A shake and a gust was all it would take
to unsettle the nerves and to make the fall partake.

He swallowed the rest of his doubts and fears,
he pulled back the rod to bring the fabric of the umbrella close and near.
With the rumbling clouds spilled on the light dark of the day
he thought of words that his true self wanted to say.

He looked up with his eyes drowsy and closed,
million droplets still falling to give him a dose.
And all it took was the chill of the air and
he figured the purpose he was due to serve with flair.