Sinners have more stories than a saint does.
While the saint takes preaching,
The sinner has things packed in the eyes.
Some in the smile and least on the face,
Some known to fellow sinners.
Some wore as a badge of honour,
In the form of a wound or a scar,
In the heart or on the skin
Painted much to the disbelief of the
Gatherers of the aesthetics.
They’re the ones who are temporary.
Not known to be the keepers.
Nor the epitome of holy deeds.
Temporary, for sure, and yet etched
In heart like the black hole,
Dragging the lookers into themselves
Without them having to know.
Like fire pulling you in the coldest hours,
The ones that Maa warns you against.
But you want to know those tales.
The stories behind those pitch black eyes,
The stories that will rip off your innocence.
You know the adamant self does what it does.
And now, you’re one of them,
Sinister stories of your deeds,
Smeared all over your face.
The brown eyes now darker like your soul,
With no buttons that undo.
Know The Poet
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