Somewhere there's this quietude.
Waiting on a hill, looking at a nullity-
Sitting by a lake, waiting for
The ripples to come, touch your feet-
Imagining yourself in a dark room,
Eyes closed. Searching for something.
Searching for what?
This quietude you can't listen to.
Quietude you can't feel or touch-
Trying to translate it on sheets and
Sheets of paper. Not satisfied with a
A pen or colour or your intent.
Ending up relating yourself more to
The blankness of the paper than any
Of the stories written-
Each paper, screaming, louder than ever.
And you, growing quieter every time
You scribble.
With each appeal and attempt-
Between the noise and silence.
The void, getting bigger and bigger-
The artist in you, smaller and smaller.
Till one day when you disappear from
Your art. Consumed by the void.
Only then it's complete.
Only then peace. Only then a poem.