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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The sweet cane dream

Once upon a random daze of night,
the man slept through the gaze of his might.
He crashed and went into the hold of dreams
his crooked mind was let off like leaves in streams.
Through the pebble and dirt of the nothingness
his celestial thoughts thought of nothing less.
He had a magic cane in his hand
which has powers that none could even understand.
A grab of the polished willow stick
made him a wise old arrogant prick.
Strangers saw his black and white beard grow
as the dream he was in went by really slow.
Still with the cane, his alter-ego lived;
his lips carrying the remains of cigarette he lit.
Kins and foes stood in the trace of the line
to steal on the wisdom of this old and arrogant swine.
“Be as you are” the old man said
and he lost the cane to his soul that is dead.
He never again got the glimpse of this dream
if it does, his euphoric core of the life would scream.