He drew infinity,
with bright and gloomy colours.
His canvas was hardly left blank.
He was always appreciated for his skill,
and that gave him hope.
He drew relentlessly,
of free birds and clouds.
The splatter of pain upon his iris,
his hands filthy with glistening dreams.
He drew about,
his unalloyed love for art.
However, his father wanted something else.
Maybe to see his son,
walking down the clichéd lane.
He drew and defied his father,
who scattered his dreams in the rusty wind.
He drew,
unable to contain himself.
He drew a sharp breath,
and created his masterpiece.
He splattered his wrists,
with red fluid.
Finally,
he was free
in a place where,
he could paint the world of his dreams.
YOU ARE READING
Mirage.
PoetryDisclaimer : I do not own the pictures, used with my poems. They are the property of their creators.
