Lonely by the canvas


I brushed a stroke of orange on a clean coral canvas
and waited not too long to see its meaning fade.
The concoction of colors had promised a mild orange
but I was afraid my vision had underplayed.
So, I stood lonely by the canvas
as my palette refused to obey.

Even then, I had to keep going,
like an ant treading a lumpy steep wall.
Some lines here, few flicks there,
with a last slender stroke,
I had created something new and raw.
But soon I saw my truth take a turn, cold and brief.
Graciously, I stood lonely by the canvas
as I bid adieu to my obsolete belief.

A young man who hailed from the alley of abundance,
was appalled by lack of glamour to be seen.
Glossing over the maneuvers behind my strokes,
he could only see the coastline, the horizon
but nothing in between.
Once again, I stood lonely by the canvas
as I chose not to be a conformist.
I stood lonely by the canvas,
every day, while I called myself an artist.

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