The Picture

As I followed the outline of the portrait,

Letting my eyes traverse every curve, every bend,

Every graphite residue

That pushed it away from the vastness of the paper,

Every one of the million points,

That conferred its shape,

Every stroke of brush and fate,

That escorted its evolution to a form,

Every detail and deviation,

That gave life to the figure....

The rest of the chart glared back at me,

Screaming a statement,

That it belonged in the picture

By staying away,

That it created the structure

By its non contribution,

That its conspicuous in the image

By its absence…

The frame is but life,

Carved by events,

That occurred,

And that did nt.

In the argument,
Of its existence,
I side with the for,
Illusions they are not,
Hallucinate, I do not,
But never ask me,
If I see the near, or the far..
Visual pathway of mine,
Is but quite intact,
Hence valid is my witness..
I see it true,
But describe I cannot,
cos Its got the dimensions of self..

Thoughts cram,
And accrue,
And d sight of definiteness lost?
Or just plain blank mind,
Leading to a vision
Of void too vast?

When do I see,
And why?
Where do I look,
Into what do I glide?
Aeons it lasts,
Or trice?
Asinine I become,
Or wise?

Is it worth
The above rumination,
Or is it just plain insipidness,
This moment,
Of looking into,
Nothingness.. ?

For the Sketch

With a stroke

Begins a conquer,

Of a serene vast whiteness,

By a tiny cone of grey

Driven by another colossal grey and white

Persevered by petite organs of dexterity..

Graphite tipped areas

Printing the mind on chart,

The unscathed zones,

Accentuating the form,

An art comes into being,

Stilled into the art ,

Frozen with time,

Oblivious to the mortal world,

A portrait joins the millions of lives..

And when I look at it,

A thousand fondles of the chart,

Beginning from all sides,

All directed to the nodal point,

Forming what they wish, on their way,

And end at the fulcrum of the immortal,

That which articulates sundry stories,

And that which I look when I look at it,

The eyes…

And it pulls that chord inside…

Where..?

It is not the sulci and gyri,
they listen to me
It is not the four chambers
they seem unperturbed in the beat

Where do you reside, tell me
Where are you in me,
Where i have no say,
And where stillness is the living way

"Where life resides in you" he asked
"Where death whistles its arrival
Where joy dwells, peeping now and then
Where search is futile yet the fulcrum"

He smiled.
And me too
"Where this smile roots from"
And i smiled even more....