Colors of chaos |


By: Preeti Vyas |


When she picked a brush to paint,

She has so much on her mind,

But nothing on her brain,

Her hands felt too numb.


Her thoughts couldn’t have raced faster,

Her heart was on the verge,

On the verge, to get withered,

But it held back before it succumbed.


Succumbed to her thoughts,

Cause they were bewildered and confused,

Or to her spirit, which was free, steady

Still waiting for an open path, to get a straight run.


Or to the mighty world,

Which doesn’t allow her to live on her own,

Search her own colors,

And paint in her life, a bright sun.


She has discerned this phase, as it was not new,

She tries to wipe it off,

But the screen is all inked,

With the color that she never knew.


She has never liked the irregularities,

And often she tries to make them perfect,

But this time she is getting no stroke,

No color to complete the painting she never drew.


Oh, never mind!  She has always loved her colors,

They elucidate the meaning behind the things,

Blue sky wrapping up the passion,

Those red petals contouring glee.


Yellow, she has always loved it,

Those bright strips in the boring street,

She often uses those green strokes,

When she wants to get it all alive with that tree.


She has loved those dark shades too,

When she paints those dry branches,

Of the trunk with years long girth,

With its spread loose roots, daunted.


But today, she has lost her sense of colors,

Chaos is not letting her choose one,

She knows what she has in her mind,

But the mere way of articulation is nowhere to find.


She stood in front of her spoiled canvas,

Staring at the weird emptiness as it is akin,

The time ticks an hour,

And she knows, it will take more to think.


It went like two, three and more,

And she kept standing on the balcony,

Her canvas inked,

With the incomplete painting undone.


She couldn’t think more,

And there, the winds came blowing in,

It spilled up the sheet further,

Which turned it uglier, more ruined.


With the winds, she felt the urge,

The urge to dip her fingers,

Into the jar of blue,

Which was kept among the tumblers.


She spread it all, each corner, each edge, each line,

From top to bottom,

She took out her wrath in her fixture,

And that was worth the dime.


Her fury, her rage, her resentment,

Which she was bearing with time,

Was all in the sheet that went blue,

As the clock ticked nine.


She knows now what she has to paint,

Her chaos alleviated,

With the unfathomable spirit

The color infused in her brain.


She picked the brush again,

And this time, dipped it in black,

With defiance, she drew those birds,

And a sky which outlives her ephemeral aims.


Feature Image: Fine Art America

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