I am sick of smelling raw paper and ink, I wish to scribble my feelings about you.
It must definitely be easy to seek Lord in daily trifle than to catch words about you. My every attempt is like failed flight of Icarus. I never wished to write Ulysses;
Thy smile is pristine dews scattered across a petal.
Thou art, similar to petriochr.
Thine presence is felt serendipitiously.
Thy divine art, truly provides solace.
