I never knew.
Yet I continued, Each stroke followed by another, Vigorously, as if possessed, Till I hid, all that bleaches,
That had chanced, To play upon my mind, A plain white canvas, no more, And my palette was wasted upon it all.
Them, inane narrow feelings, Them shroud, the inkling, Of the self, Within and beyond.
Embodying unto itself, Reiterating, into a shell, Curling within, to seek, That cocoon of self.
Can it be, so gratifying, So as to harbor, So much within, Or am I simply, a disturbed mind.
What stayed with you?
A line that lingered, a feeling, a disagreement. Great comments are as valuable as the original piece.
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