The Painting

We are in the painting, drawn by hands of eternity

On a bold canvas, full of serenity

Rivers of ink are yet to dry

On the masterpiece, where the painted can even fly

Existence is yet to find a color for our brooding mood

Sequestering it to the mind, which cannot be viewed

We are standouts amongst Nature’s crowd

Forgetting the painter’s touch, we become proud

To paint the inner chapel, we are given a colorful palette

Instead of a soft brush of love, we bring a bulky mallet

Hammering our thoughts in place, instead of letting them waft

Painting them black or white we hide them in our loft

There is a long way to go before the painting’s done

Humanity is a tiny dot which includes everyone

Would we ever see what the painter sees?

We may be in awe that will never thaw in the eternal freeze