To paint a river by the mountains
Covered in mist
On some random evening
Of sun shafts
Piercing through clouds
Lighting up the river
Making it sparkle
But my hand is stilled
For I am not a painter
Or so my mind says, my skill shows too
I envy those
Yet not innately
I wish to wake up one day
To splatter paints and brush
And maybe in those strokes
Highlight
What my mind sees
Of green fields, rivers, mountains and mist
And maybe you holding me
Until then maybe I shall apply restraint
Than waste canvas, colours, brushes, and oil
And look inside as I write poetry
On how you seem to be
Playing along, singing and dancing
Holding my soul, unlike you are
But then again
From paint to words
It can still be my fantasy.
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