'Where have you gone?
Leaving me at piazza Dante all alone?'
She ventured to ask me oneday
Turning up beside the table
Where my paintbrushes lay...
Their hair with paint dried up
Hard as stone rendered useless
Obsolete coat of paint red turned too black a base...
A perfect case
Of unfinished work
Riddled by wounds so fresh...
The canvas also looked damaged
Beyond salvation any art critic's gaze
Would extract an appraisal befitting the stage...
'I know...'
However my fictional character assured
With her iconic eyes she tried to lure...
'Your hearth within still got that fire...
Your fingers still aspire to touch that lyre...
And music still sits pretty on the reeds of ivory white...
Still by the moonlight croons the runaway bride...
For you...
Can't you hear and see?
Unlock it all...
And you still possess the key...'
The lady from my script ,page number six
Came to evoke a tone
That could my crumpled soul pick
With a distinct possibility
Of the wind unfurling paint bottles in me
In shape of colored flags with joy...
Free...
And sudden plots of colors with ornate hope
Started appearing down the slope
Of Mount Vesuvius...non functional and dead...
My heroine with eyeconic black hues paid
Back all my beads of sweat and toil
Wetting my stone hard paintbrush with a new foil
Of stories and tales and poems- injecting fertility to the soil...
The heroine of the unfinished script
Me and my paintbrushes into the infinite dipped...
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