Painter

With hurried steady footsteps

She rushes into the dark room

And clutches Her brushes

In a grip of passion,

Emptying the paints

All into a mess on the floor

Where the colors lie in a concoction

Intertwined, imperfect.

So She dips into them

And starts to paint

On Her body –

On every curve, every crevice,

On every edge

With colors so vibrant

They could blind the sky.

With brush-strokes fervent and flawed,

She paints –

Endlessly, till the break of dawn.

And when there’s no inch left

Uncovered,

She shuts Her eyes

And slips to the floor

In a slumber so deep

Not even the Sun can wake Her up.

Only She can,

Only if She wants to.

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