It doesn’t take a connoisseur’s appreciation
To value the refined art
A fleeting praise from a patron
Works just as well
In lighting up an artist’s will
To create and propel pieces of such magnificence
Enriching the culture of this society
In bits and fragments.
To find beauty in this mundane life
Which comes across only
Torpid and morbid at times
Is quite a gift, I presume
Not given to many, some assume
Nothing could be further from the truth
Some do have a knack to excel at certain things
And that forms individuality
But within all of us lies a part which remains in deep slumber
Waiting for a match to ignite its abundant reservoir.
YOU ARE READING
Travelling through time
PoesíaOur journey believe it or not begins the very day we are born. Our parents, the moment they look at us are filled with so many emotions and aspirations which we can't even begin to comprehend, certainly not then and not even now. At the end its upon...
