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.