Playing a part on this mortal canvas,

Is just the way paved by the ultimate power holder, Nature;

Time stands still, they say;

The hues fade away with their gratify-filled movements;

And some tints,

Prison the incessant and ceaseless expansive of those dense white pastures;

 

Riding myself from the mistaken identity I behold,

Captivating time,

To acknowledge the gift conditioned from self, very own;

 

Seeing it around then,

The irk from my breath struggles to strive,

 

But the dusty veil stands by its stalwart words,

To vanquish in the denouement I would be inking then;

Seeing the smudge of the clouds,

Ornate-ing the metaphorical cuddle with the eye-arresting sky.

At this alluring juncture,

The trees lining against the negligence of the dauber’s hand,

Which takes a pause and relinquishes his part of play;

Bids it farewell and takes it’s leave,

From the dark canvas of whiteness lying in the shed,

Unnoticed and well secured from any human eye;

I hold its ingenuity in my bare, contrite hands,

Pretending of having least knowledge of them,

Lonely, in the crowd of men,

I personify the voice of the vacant canvas;

 

Urging to save me from the diluted norms,

Which the colors would after all call for;

 

And in the end, I am unpretentiously still,

While witnessing the silent screams of that opalescent canvas,

I remember,

I had left behind.

 

Aryagni  Panda writes poems and articles both on fiction and non-fiction. Her special interests lie in literature, art, photography, and wildlife. She actively participates in various public speaking contests and currently resides in Cuttack, India.