Thursday, February 3, 2011

His Canvas, His Clay

(The Crank and his muse)

His Canvas, His Clay
Art, as you say, is Love
Love, as I know thou art.
We are only beings of His making
splashed, spattered, cross hatched.

Love, pours forth in bright red
our sins etched in flowing blood;
Tones of Grey, splashes of Blue,
spaces of White, hurt and Hue.

Formed with a burst of light
Light, we all come from.
A mold, spinning fast on a wheel
cut through in shapes by his fingers.

We become flowers of many patterns
God and Goddesses, of fear and love;
Basked in the Sunlight, baked in Earth,
our lifeless expressions of a million joy's worth.

::Vibin Issac::


  1. i dodnt understand a word :D.. dude shakespear is turning around in his grave ;D.. aamir


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