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?
