Painter of shapes, beings and stories,
Singers of music, dancers of steps,
Pipetted and dropped, for an end point,
To unknown chemistry of wolves and slanders.
But we be, but drops of inks or colours,
Careless, spreading for tales in millions.
Painter of lines, inks and Saturdays,
Words are ordinary, poetry is extra,
Like mourning on Monday,
Painting on a penthouse,
I’m a son, born on Sunday.
But I be still, a drop of ink or colour.
Man by man the world he grew,
Woman by woman, our strength was made,
Shades of love and carelessness,
Beyond the reaches of all dreamers’ nights,
Plugged from stars on a sleepless night.
A drop of ink or colour, the story is made.
Painter of places, shadows and sleeps,
Maker of nowhere that has a middle,
Creator of shades with love that tickles.
Stroke by stroke, let’s sing his fiddle,
Brush by brush, our paints are single,
But we mingle, we’re inks and colours.
Painter of warriors, heroes and greatness,
Water my bottle, take my flow from lateness,
Fill my heart with college of mindsets,
Make my prime more golden than bracelets,
Wash my errs, sometimes I’m shameless.
Like inks and colours, my shine the brightest.
Painter of love, hugs and kisses,
Owner of light, smiles and blessings,
They call it prayers, I’ll bow in tenses,
Show me the sun, closer than the earth,
Give me a son, daughters and neigbours,
The inks and colours, I’ll leave behind.
