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.
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