An ode to the blinds,

That hides all the beaming lights.

The beauty we see,

The miracles we want still refuse,

Everything we get is what we choose.

Neither the fate,

Nor the thousand mates,

That default,

But our hearts,

That set-in tumult.

The tumult we paint

In our minds with sheer hate,

Hatred from ourselves and

Our breadth,

Segregating the senses from the

Dance of death.

The head flooded with the red,

Once it bleeds,

It does not look for a shed.

The vision that it dims,

Deluding the senses to perceive

Everything at the side of sin.

The sin that we commit to ourselves,

Looking for the sore version

Of the real self,

Flushed with puss and pain,

Swearing the soul succumbing

To strain.

The fog of perception,

Blinding the sight to the

Slightest of intention.

Go off these blurry lenses,

To a field of renaissance,

The renaissance of new beliefs and faith,

Casting away the age-old myths,

Wiping off the unstaunched wounds,

Freeing the soul from shackles bound.

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