If I were a painting,
I'd like to be painted and touched,
In the purest shades of blush pink,
And washed with waves of pristine white,
I would like to be stroked with dreamy blue,
But never get the feel of the dreary grey.
Nor would I like fiery red or jealous green.
To mar the perfection of me.
I'd just like to be the blend of colours,
Of emotions and thoughts speckled with doubt,
That fuel artists to create more arts.
And immortalize the uniquely fluid me.
YOU ARE READING
MUSINGS OF A SOLIVAGANT
PoetryJust like her solivagant mind wanders and the soft vernalagnia colors her cheeks, rosy - poetry swells from her inside. What her camera captures, spins words of hope and despair in her. Where the heart bleeds on to the paper, there springs poetry...
