Strokes of fine lines,
In a vast canvas of pearly white;
How I started off my painting of life,
With streaks of grandeur pervading light.
Along the way, I lost my colours,
I lost my paint, and became duller.
With each convolution my mind creates,
The splendid patterns, once fair, abates.
The canvas, that once stood devoid of smears,
Is now full of inadvertent blotches, designed by tears,
The intricacies all lost with the tide of time,
The ornate panorama, now reduced to slime.
So I fumble in blindness, for my glass of wine;
The wine of pensive, to be inebriated in ruminations of mine.
My memories now pour out as the new colours of my palette,
And I try to paint, soliciting riches again in my wallet.
In my bid, I concoct a new art-
A modern art.
Instead of patterns, I now paint words,
Words that swell in herds;
Words of lavish colours;
Dispersed by impassioned mullers.
I know not, how my colours evolved,
From homogenised strokes, to stories awaiting to be solved,
I no longer have the same brushes,
Or the same adroitness, flair and touches.
But I realise this is not despair,
My stories weave their own air,
Whether or not they smoulder with sheen,
As the erstwhile paintings, that touched the soul, so serene.
My words will have the same impact,
So long as my canvas protracts.
My words will paint bold my dreams,
With the colours from my palette, in vivid pearly creams!