Wings of Ink

Lost in numbers, assets and objects Trying to find futile excuses for living amongst these worldly acquisitions Trying to find a confirmation of being alive Forgetting Vivid paintings that make us see, not just look The passionate music that makes us listen, not just hear The heartfelt poetry that makes us think, not just act Dances, plays and orchestras The wondrous art that truly makes us alive instead of simply breathing

In those dark hours of night, The quiet seems to be audible, The silence speaks It speaks to those dreamers, staying up to make them come true It speaks to the poets, Who meaningful thoughts do pursue But silence speaks It speaks to the passionate ones awake While every other takes rest It speaks to those artists Who paint pictures of depth, But silence speaks

  How long will materiality define our emotions? Where to go if loved ones mislead the way? Is it too hard to believe that you can live in? Solitude, on your own terms with nothing to dismay.   My attachment isn’t to objects inanimate Neither people, nor pets What makes me want to live is an Unseen, unheard, invisible debt   A want to experience The contentedness of publishing a book The feel of playing piano in spotlight The vibe of a renaissance look   To spill the paints on a blank canvas To dance on the road like a maniac To drive a car with sad music on To become a philosophical brainiac   These desires out of question instill a want to see in reality Two different worlds coexisting together The world of dreams where everything becomes real, The world of reality where hope rises out of superficiality  Khushi_M