The strokes of life still look distant
My skin absorbs the essence and
reflects the radiance of many colours
but the picture is still, incomplete
it's beyond my faculties,
beyond my strength
to see, comprehend or summon to myself-
the colour that will bless the picture that i bear,
 with life
I was crafted and handed down-
blank-
I was a pale, unused canvas;
through my days in the wonder called the world,
time stroked my skin with
different shades of different hues
Even the canvas does not know
 the mind of the artist,
the canvas does not recognize
the hue that will make it complete
Sometimes a shade entices the canvas
but my artist changes his mind and
some other times,
the beauty of the shade fades away
as it seeps into my skin.
No, i don't understand the colours or my artist
I just am a passive that knows not it's own fate
There is a colour-
i am sure this is the one
but
it is still locked up in its space,
on my painter's desk
It is the most beautiful hue i have ever
laid my eyes on
I wish it reaches me
colours my skin
seeps deep into it
brings me to life
and stays forever
but
it still is far away-
all i can do is- look at it
wish, wait, and hope
My painter is my lord
He knows the picture he has in mind and
he knows the colour that'll complete it
If this is the one,
then
it's only a matter of beautiful moments before
the magical stroke reaches me.