The palette in hands of mine held,
Trembled with that every,
Quaint touch of that soft brush,
And hence,

Stroke upon stroke,
The canvas no more, a perfect bleach,
Splattered across it,
Mind full of colors.

The ecstasy, it drove me on,
Splattering away, onto the canvas,
What, can I not, or would I not,
I never knew.

Yet I continued,
Each stroke followed by another,
Vigorously, as if possessed,
Till I hid, all that bleaches,

That had chanced,
To play upon my mind,
A plain white canvas, no more,
And my palette was wasted upon it all.

Them, inane narrow feelings,
Them shroud, the inkling,
Of the self,
Within and beyond.

Embodying unto itself,
Reiterating, into a shell,
Curling within, to seek,
That cocoon of self.

Can it be, so gratifying,
So as to harbor,
So much within,
Or am I simply, a disturbed mind.