For all the Sinners
Poem, by Hannah Tate
Everyone is talking. Everyone is listening.
The hall is layered in rows of chairs, waiting to be packed away.
A fodder of noise is littering the hall, jumping from ear to ear.
Man, and women talking.
The man chatter about cleaning the garden and their 9 to 5 job.
The women drone on about their children and the latest parenting craze to hit the streets.
All the while their thoughts speak,
“Intimacy. Sex. Wonder. Beauty. Lust. Sensual. Breasts. Chest.”
The paster, almost sensing such a betrayal of thought, scavengers to find to the source of indecency.
The couple are standing in the middle of the room, drowning in the Nosie.
Buried deep in the talk around them, it eclipses them and etches away at their soul.
They turn to each other to hold on to the pieces escaping.
She brushes his arm, he smiles gently.
He pulls her in, caressing her face gently. Heads begin to turn slightly.
She lightly guides her hand across his chest.
Noise chugs into life, like a vintage car.
Whispers pollute the air.
The couple remain in bliss. Joined together, under the spell of intimate connection.
They are in sync like paper and ink.
The noise erupts in madness. Cries of disgusts.
The couple are shaded, a bubble protecting the beauty and ecstasy.
It makes sure nothing penetrates. No poison can cross the boundary.
Noise continues, like a stampede towards the wild and free. Yet, the people’s minds are alight with passion and wonder.
They crave the beauty.
They crave the passion.
They crave the freedom.