It’s not like I don’t have these alphabets

Or those varied lame schemes

Or any history filled with bulk of sobriquets and narratives, memories. 

It’s just that there is too much to splash,

But not on some acquiesce canvas, 

Just in the air. 

Canvas, can never speak. 

It will not even be here, for too long, 

Feeling those shades, then get bored,

All known and just ends, 

Keeps irritating, hushed, beautiful,

Yet dead, at the corner of the room. 

Keep swashing. Random. 

Air… Hushed air touches and talks

Fills and let nothing come between,

Calming, expressing in its own forms,

Painting my thoughts, inspiring,

Charming those colours,

Ears all up and splashing it’s own beauty. 

Both are amusing, soothing,

But sniffs and time and evermore,

Probably just responses makes all the difference. 



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