Feathers of a dove ….. O my tender love
promised to fly in a flock as seasonal birds
miles and miles in the open sky.
The icy breeze, the drizzling rains,
the scent of part evergreen Mahogany
all are there as innocent as thee.
The drenched woods, blackest clouds hovering above,
desperate to kiss the top of trees,
the water soaked earth, wild flowers, lotus and water-lilies
nothing could be more picturesque.
Flawless not, the strokes of a paintbrush.
A colour fades like fondness wanes
in mate’s heart ,
respect diminishes as a tear rolls down
like colour drips over an open canvas,
colours convincingly mixed to create hues
and self-identity disappears.
1 thought on “An Imperfect Painting.”