Friday, December 17, 2010

while depicting the Life

A brush dipped in yellow
am walking over the lonesome backdrop of ‘Wheatfield with crows’
are not shivering the Vangogh hands of painter

Words are aching
in the letters of Theo nowadays
and they’re aching voiceless

The walk that is with me always
is continuous as the flow of Rangit
feet are fettered with compulsion
to reach unknown somewhere

Waiting for a blue pastel
the incomplete desire to be portrayed as Irises
are also drying out as fallen leaves.

No comments:

Post a Comment