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It's not about the painter and a piece of blank paper he needs to delineate his art over at.
The paper's adroit enough to be still crafted out without the painter.
It's about paint and brushes. About how no paint would put colors to art without a brush, And how no brush would still be called a tool, if not of its ability to paint the canvas lush.
It's not about how the sun loves the moon and enlightens it at night, Or how the moon hides behind to let again the sun shine.
It's about the Earth and the Sky. However vast or hollow you might call the sky, But it's always there above the sand, To water back the arid land.
It's not about how the birds look for neoteric branches to sit on, And how they come flying from all over the places, just for the green of the fruits.
It's about how at the end of the day, All they need is dead and decay. It's always about the twigs they look for to build a home.
All of these seconds is what I've written as my avid love for you. But then again, it's not about how I pen it down on pages.
