It Started With A Blank Canvas
It started with a blank canvas,
the life landscape I painted since,
shows a friendly fence or two,
some with pegs stout and straight,
some with bars broken and bent,
a barrier between the rough pallid path
and the flashy flowery garden of grandeur,
between the rippling river and the verdant vale,
between the serene sea and the rocky ridge,
between the desert dunes and the emerald oasis.
In the painted canvas
I find me lost nondescript
in the crowd of contradiction,
searching for the sanguine definition
and a sole space
of my own.
It started with a blank canvas,
the life scene I painted since,
shows a segment of dismal smoky sky
with creeping clump of somber cloud,
a wandering solitary scrap,
clinging to the cobalt bowl,
or slumping formless and forlorn
down the insipid incline of hazy horizon,
draping the derelict hills in blues
with melancholic motif.
In the painted canvas
I find me fly alone
in the fervent flow of life,
searching for the sense of flight
and the mooring meadow
of my own.
It started with a blank canvas,
the life panorama I painted since,
portrays trellis of trees in the foreground,
some young and green, straight and stout,
some brown and bent, scaling and hollow.
They bifurcate the boughs skyward to screen
other trees in the bleak background,
shed the fawn foliage covering the green grass,
spread reticulate roots grinding the ground to dust.
In the painted canvas
I find me desolately eclipsed
and discounted downright,
searching for free foothold
and a singular identity
of my own.
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