Sinners and Saints
He sat there playing his melancholic piano,
The tips of his lashes wailed at restraining each drop from going further,
Those light brown eyes gave warm glances to the otherwise abrasive attire
Each note he played seemingly broke each rib with that oh so dreaded creak
Yet his broken fingers never ceased playing that dastardly comfort
So rich in fact that pure gold paled in comparison
His unnatural desires from those who held the silver keys
A foreign thought, demolishing that cage with every last bit of energy he could muster
The ghosts of murders past often visitors
Firmly kept in check by that rusting iron
As he watched his sister’s condescending eyes
Just for a millisecond, or maybe it was a hallucination
Those senses that witnessed joy, love, beauty wouldn’t give a second glance
To the palpable lament that seemed like a mirage made of every shade of black and white
The grey chain of each stubborn burn impotent to discover his Yin and Yang
Avarice for the sweeter poison despite a sharp, sour tongue,
Lust for the shadow of the white peacock reminding every cell of his body
Of their bitter envy despite having proudly wrested the light,
The sloth that his gluttony had made
Resolution to his wrath, inception to theirs.
Every feather dripped of warm, red blood oozing out of the shoulders that he could no longer carry,
Relinquishing the only respite he found to keep going for another sunrise
For sinners and saints don’t suffice to warrant a spatial rend
Redeemed for maybe just a second even in those eyes witnessed villainy,
A death wish easier to read than one’s destiny engraved in tablets of ruin and suffering.
And yet the wind complemented the fire circling every obsidian obelisk
Only to leave forsaken spectators to watch trepidatiously as every pilar collapsed
Leaving ashes, dust and the same wind that did them in
Forced to bow under the terms of those considered inferior.
The legs defended when those feathers clanged in forceful submission, no longer rambunctious
And steely dust descended each foggy dawn, only to wither away incarnating,
Into the clangorous souls that built each and every shrapnel, glued as just another pretty scar.
Muted he lay, unable to avail himself of words, learnt to resemble strident silver bullets.
Incinerated matcha cremating, from those held responsible for his life.
Even the darkest lariat couldn’t restrain enough; and yet
An ascent that endlessly plummets, the final verdict it seemed.
The few hundred times he won, neglected
Distrusted, the matcha held in palms of uncertainty
The sacrifice that became a norm to those weary, withering trees
And those great eyes that beamed at him proudly from the sky.
Relinquishing the final respite he found to keep going for another sunset,
For sinners and saints don’t suffice to warrant a spatial rend.
“Can you tell me, can you tell me the way my story ends;
The demon in my hide…”
And now there’s nothing left.
By: Haseeb Husain Mukadam
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