Art

You,

the prisoner of a heart,

the conqueror of a body,

sauntering in the garden of life,

how complex are your thoughts?

A languid slippery street

of useless thought.

But do your wits urge you

to frame that scene

against your acumen?

Why do you waste so much time

 in contriving ways to arrest time?

Are you a fossil of a moment lost?

Time and again you burn

in your internal flame,                                           

emerge like a wingless bird

on a windless flight.

Are you searching for clarity in those clouds?

Does your wanderlust lead you

to some kind of truth?

When you imagine beauty, is it confined to the world?

Or is it an endless stream of lucid dreams?

When you create your magnum opus,

will you be brave enough

to give it your whole heart

and yourself dissolve into its reflection?

When you see people shuffling

in their sundry dyes,

do you struggle to see things

in black and white?

Every day the twilight disperses

a virgin palette,

and you laugh at the brevity of life.

Tell me, sir, has your life been your art?

A shimmering souvenir for inspiration?

Do you see art?

Plunge your sensations in the sieved form?

Or do you marvel at the fact

that you can witness it,

and that it is you,

and you are.

Or do you paint the eyes of your mind

and walk on?