Sitting in front of the white canvas
I wove the thread of my imagination..
With each stroke I was measuring
If the chin looks much broader
Or the neck should be thinner..
The eyes should be such
That they would be staring at me with penetrating sights
As if apprehending what is inside..
The smile should be such
Which would make me forget
All my sorrows and pangs..
So wonderful it was to feel
A mere structure would gain life
With the touches of my hands..
My own creation
I couldn’t recall when I fell asleep.
A hazy image of face
Haunted me even in my sleep.
I woke up with the rumbling sound
It’s storming terribly outside
Everything is getting scattered with the gushes of wind.
I ran to the canvas, standing beside the window
All the colors have been washed away
With the splashes of rain..
The hazy face has become hazier
My thread of imagination has been torn
Something hard has come up to choke my throat.
There stands my incomplete dream, my unattended pride
There stands my unfinished creation……