The day he walked in that door
was the day he was destined to die.
He lay his foot inside the door
and the other one concurrently came out.
He transposed his clothes
but they ceased to cover his body.
The scarlet coat was left hanging
in the closet with his soul.
Indicted with crimes
that he must not have been penalized for.
And bashed by society
with their spiteful words like arrows.
Met his lover
but was parted by the injudicious laws.
Left skint and lacerated
with the epithet of an outcast.
Alien tears fill for him
and outcasts pay their homages.
No statue of air was this man
yet hard labor was all he was given to build it out of stone.
His teacher later delineated him as a blot on their tutorship.
For he was but a tutor.
De Profundis
spoke of his anguished journey.
Victorian times
disagreed with his originality and frolic.
He told
platonic love was all he was guilty of.
Yet,
he was charged with crimes.
Drowned in cries of shame;
and incarcerated to rip him off his passion.
Something was dead in him,
and what was dead was hope.
Hope died first
and then gradually died the passion.
In exile,
his love for writing too deceased.
The daemon inside him
ceased to inspire.
God sent the lord of death
The lord of death
didn’t move around pompously like him.
But came announced,
for it had been accepted.
The wallpaper moaned
upon his untimely death.
For it desired to die
instead of the then mincing man.
He left the earthly plains
for the good have fewer days.
The good die young
as did the revered outcast.
Herodotus the father of history
unerringly expressed the good ones’ misery.
He repudiated to deny his soul
and lived nonchalantly.
He desired all the fruits of the world
so he lived.
Exile ruined him
and rent his ardor.
His meetings with his lover
were interdicted by his family.
He was pardoned
but a century too late.
Along with the outcasts
that lived in throbbing pain.
The outcast deceased when young
but lived indefinitely.
Infinite existence is promised
for the ***** was silver-tongued.
He died young
and roams the immortal planes.
Just like Alan Turing,
Bhagat Singh, JFK, and countless more.
God wanted them
for they wanted to augment their heavens.

caste to caste,
we are on a pyramidal paste.
less to none, the options to outclass
this is the cry of an outcast.

We always think
Those who are alone
Deserve to be lonely
Yet everyday we witness
Sins above all
Everyday we witness
The world we have built
From the outcast
Trying to fit in
To the stray
Keeping their distance
We always think
They are the ones falling behind
But think again
Are they?

i’m no outcast in these woods,
where the people who belong
are shunned,
permitted no entrance to what
is sacred
and preserved only to those
who understand what it
feels like to be
dismembered at the waist

It’s the inimitable nature
Of a hand that is extended in love
To the one who walks with their thoughts  
As if an immeasurable weight rests on their shoulders

it’s the precise curvature of the smile
That an unfamiliar face gives
To the one whose heart pounds against their chest
After their voice projects into the open
When it's always just a whisper  

It’s the bed of relief that lies on the shoulder
Of a friend that offers it in goodness
To the one who never asks and always  listens

It is the heart of the outcast
That blooms into gardens
When they meet a soul
That takes them under their wing
So they too can fly
Without feeling the fall

Little scorned outcast,
all grown now and strong
Finally found somewhere he could belong,
but little scorned outcast could not forget
the toil, the tears, the blood and the sweat.

First he came for father, old and weak,
took his shotgun and pointed at cheek
The trigger 'twas pulled, Daddy was no more
but there were more than he to come for.

Mother was next, humming in her chair,
when she saw him her eyes bulged in stare
The scarf she doth knit for beloved son
wrapped tight 'round her neck before she could run.

Brother was out, throwing hay in the field,
strong and broad, poor wretch would likely be killed
But nimble and quick, took rusted scythe in his hand
spilled brother's own blood on brother's own land.

Lastly was fair sister, slept by the fire,
a quaint pretty girl nonetheless fated for the pyre
Her innocent face free from her deserved guilt
the wretch took knife from the table and buried its hilt.

Finally free from burden of the past,
the poor, little outcast looked his last
at last complete in his vengeful plight
the wretch no longer; disappeared into the night.