Canvas

I have seen the most beautiful places. I have witnessed them all. Are they lies? But I know every inch of them as if they were a piece of canvas exhibited only to my eyes

I try to stop thinking about them. It's just a dream. That longs to vanish as it merges into reality. How to stop? Is there a way? It is the one thing I want to give away.

“Is it the only canvas? Where are the other painters?” I always ask myself. I wander around for a hue to cover my heart, thinking a mirage can quench the thirst of my art.

I run through the white curtains and dissect every part of it, to get a clue, to get a piece, To find a final portion of me.

Some tell me that I must let it go but isn’t the light that feeds the tree? And hence I wait to be liberated, to be free. Till I seize the dream as a prisoner of me.