Strokes Of Colour

By Radha Konda

A brush with fine grey bristles

Grows old by the paints on the table,

Old like age but young like time, 

Yearning to be held by its master

Who has locked herself in the untrodden

Chamber of well-knitted sadness, 

Sunny were the days when she 

Would sit by the garden flowers and 

Paint like a Dove’s graceful landing on

Tranquil waters as the wind tucked 

Long black lines out of her alluring

Features, Sun would be busy reckoning 

Her beauty with stars in his backyard, 

While the moon would be too shy to peek 

And too busy to record her enticing 

Charms in his personal, drawing book, 

Moon Dust jealous of her flowing strokes

Clouds envious of her cheeks, keep dressing 

Their fluffs, rainbow resentful towards her, 

Tries to shine brightest when she sits outside, 

Now she lost her love, everyone seems glum. 

By Radha Konda