You vent your pride over a castle
Oblivious, you call it yours
The earth crumbles it with a slight tremble
Leaving you with wails and tears.
Do I need to say the pace at which wealth dwindles
Or how long people last
It takes but a minute to lose them all
You believed you gained from an austere fast.
So isn’t ‘possession’, quite deceptive
Or those classified under it are?
Is there anything that sticks around
Like to the night sky do moon and star?
But at the threshold between solitude and loneliness
When I strain my throat to release notes tainted with melancholy
They sweetly hum back into my ears
Filling my void eventually.
When I give colours to my chaotic thoughts
And splash them across the paper
They whittle stories on the sprawling sheet
For me to time and again savour.
When I find my voice withering and curling
Despite volumes of words thronging my mind
Pages lay themselves bare
For me to pour the emotions undefined
And I have left miles behind
Have owned a lot and lost even more
Yet the fear of losing my art
Has not succeeded in touching my core.
I’ve had my pocket swell and shrink
And people come and go
But what I create have clasped my hands
From mid-sea to shore, they did row.
And so the old potter
Takes pride even in shards of his pot
For it’s broken yet loyal
Unlike those, who his efforts effortlessly forgot.
And so do the sculptor, jeweler and painter
Revel under punctured, thatched roof
For they brew their wealth with love and sweat
To claim ownership they need no proof.
In a world that cradles all in the lap of illusion
And each is burdened with the grief of loss one endures
Wealthy is the one adept at manifesting abstractions
For it’s only your art that’ll always be yours.