Paint Brush
She loved to draw but an amateur she was
Whenever she found her words at a loss
Brush and paint were her way of spilling out thoughts
But people paid little heed to her art
Only a slurry of colours was what they thought.
But then he came and adored all her art
She soon began to paint for him now and again
One painting after another, pouring all her care
Admiring the art, for hours at length, at them he could stare
And to her, they were more than paintings — they grew into her language of love
For a touch or a kiss or a sweet word couldn’t say her love but only her brush.
One good day, gone he was and so did her art
His or hers or any of the paints’ — whose was the fault?
She pondered long and hard but couldn’t decide
She shut her brush in a box and put it aside.
Year after year, her brush collected dust
Someday she would hold it again — it did trust
She too yearned to paint — her tools weren’t that far
But there was no one who she’d rather paint for.
Her biggest fear wasn’t that she’d never find a painting-worthy person
But it was that she’d never paint at all
For the fear of losing that person all over again
Was ever looming in her creative brain.
Out of the blue she met someone — a kiddish charm
He made her gleam and giggle and kept her warm
After so long, she picked the brush from her trove…
But alas! She threw it away saying, “No Girl, this isn’t the way to love!”
Posted Nov 28, 2022, 8:04 AM UTC