It's the real time to start something new The cat's outta closet, We're left with things so few. For oft, words dictate and trigger one conceit Envisaging one dream.. What if one begins to paint Before he dares write in His realm?
Crackling thoughts and crumbs of passion-pudding, Sticking to His cheek and He finally beams.. His eyes glisten, and tears tremble And He's lost in the turbid streams. Look at that crescent moon on the deep purple canvas, It winks at the wide field of merry blossoms with no curse But old and bold, the sinuous brook, The real big crook, Disgruntled and despondent. To him it's nothing but one cold chuckle.
Streaks of graphite on one white sheet.. Weaving dreams where rhymes greet,- Disdained pathos and petulant penchant- For some words Like bold swords..
And his both eyes gleam.. As he silently moves- Towards one big dream. With no big words... And no big swords.