The Pencil, hug
My familiar fragrance
Some strokes and the dotted lines
The feelings
The aroma,
Older than
My sweet memories;
That it comprehends
That,
I ever had;
Roping me free, up
In grandeur, doing
Arts and cursive lines
To perch, on
My nostril bud
Rejuvenating my childhood days
Much I use sharpner
Much Joy I bloom
The rubber
Distils my path
I fasten
My fear and pain, tight
In grip:
Forefinger and the thumb
The base with middle finger,
Creating my freedom, own
Owning my pencil
Steering the heights
Beating Michaelangelo and Raphael twice!
No comments:
Post a Comment