You are the paint brush.
Paint is your efforts.
The painting is your life.
Dear painter!
Please Paint your life well.-
As kids, we used to colour every object distinctly ; shading and mixing came as we grew up.
-
• Of Paintings and poems •
On an ethereal landscape of cerulean
green, a doppelganger of Van Gogh's
creation seem to lie the eyelids in a
gallery. Like a shrine tranished with
cement and rocks, in a furnished room
a swiftly wounded Sun, hides in an
evening of amethyst. From a sack of
oblivion to an eternal a symphony arises.
• captioned •-
White Fedora dots
Interlinking with the blue
Diamond shaped, a bit rusty
Faded
White Fedora Dots of my ragged denim
Slippers and a tee
Cross legged, listening patchy songs
Nude nails, nude lips
And the hair done all messy, streaks falling out of place
Looking chic and urbane cool I say
Trying to dislodge attempts at being tamed
A different picture
Monochromatic, faded golden mostly
A platonic saree
Thick plated hair, adorning face on both sides
Crossed leg, mystic smile
Thick mascara I see on the eyes
Hands folded, lucknawai heels
My Fedora dots pale in comparison to that chikankari top!
Golden seems way too colorful
than the blue white game I've been playing lately-
All the paintings on my wall
tell a story
they talk in shades of greys
sometimes not
hanging there with many
they must feel hidden or unseen
some covered in old paint
some vitiated for never
being preserved well
a few buried in dust and
rust from old metal
some sagged yet not put
in place again
trying to tell something again
it could be that
these hands of mine
were never supposed to
decorate a canvas
~and my brush smeared in different
hues to never tell stories.-