There is a lot of poetry around me from the past few days. It has its effects. I had previously published four rhyming lines and called it a poem. Here are many not-rhyming lines. I still call it a poem-The brushstrokes keep falling on the canvas
Harsh, rough, jagged strokes,
like the edge of a broken window pane
Tender like a dew drop rolling down the broken glass
So sure, so confused
waiting for the next epiphany to strike
Epiphany after epiphany
He makes a ladder out of them and climbs it
building each rung as he goes up
The water, the colours mix under his command
A bit more of yellow here, some more water there
Red and blue make purple...
He is the creator and the destroyer
and the preserver of it all
The small paper universe
What shall I create? He thinks
Something eternal, timelessly beautiful, but gruesome too
For is there beauty if there is no ugliness?
A woman? A breathtaking landscape? My own Monalisa?
Brushstrokes keep falling on the canvas
More unsure now. Less confident
He struggles on, struggles to escape from his pitiful insignificant life,
escape into something ethereal he built himself.
The more he tries, the harder he falls
Its natural, isn't it?
And like a madman he rushes on the canvas again,
only to spoil it further.
And then, the final epiphany strikes,
Harsh, rough, jagged, but tender at the same time,
'It is only paper'
And the beautiful universe crumbles down, not in front of his eyes
but inside his heart.
....And the brushstrokes cease to fall.