So many paintings left unfinished
With blotches here and there
Some could have been a masterpiece
Yet, somewhere, the desire to paint
Has long departed.
Once in a while, the painter picks up his brush
Only to etch a stroke and lets go of it
Over time, a half-baked canvas remains
With little sense of it was began to convey
From time to time, the painter begins again
Swayed by a renewed urge
But the colours just don't correspond to thoughts
Is it because some hues are meant for the mind alone?
Too private even for the painter's own eyes?
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It's very deep and thoughtful. I could see a strong poet as well as a philosopher in your poems. Keep thinking, do post so we can be enlightened. Jegan
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