Story Of A Sinner

Sinners have more stories than a saint does.

While the saint takes to preach,

The sinner has things packed in the eyes,

Some in the smile and least on the face.

Some inconspicuous to fellow sinners,

Some wore as a badge of honour

In the form of a wound or a scar,

Maybe in the heart or on the skin,

Painted much to the disbelief of the

Gatherers of any aesthetic art.

They're the ones who are temporary.

Not classified as the keeper.

Not the example of holy deeds.

Temporary yet etched in heart

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of the neighbor.

Like the black hole,

Dragging the lookers into the selves.

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.

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 to undo.