It Started with a Blank Canvas

I picked up some words, From an over heaped pile, Words which impressed me most. Put them carefully onto a blank paper, Like a practiced player placing, Rooks and pawns on a chequered grid. Seeing page after page getting filled With a deluge of words, I felt thrilled, Viewed it casually from a distance, Like an artist looking at a painting. I saw words become colors, My prodigality with words impressed me. I gloated over my ability as a writer. Lo! A work of literature in crude form, Stood ready, willing to be chipped and shaped. All left was to give it a form, A stroke here and there, Some finishing touches! “It’s all so damn easy, I shall keep the thing aside, Ample time lies ahead. I can now relax, take a break”. I said to myself, complacent., Days slipped by and months rolled away. One day I took out the scroll, Wiping the dust and cobwebs away. Read through it slowly, My former illusion just faded away. Its stale familiarity repelled me. Words stuck out here and there, Making no coherent sense. All I found was a jumbled, jotted mass. To me, ere they looked like lovely dames, Colorfully dressed up for a mega show. My eyes were dazzled by their costume, But now when I wait for them to fall in line, Gyrating in rhythmic steps They stand still as a disorderly mass, Refusing to budge an inch, Unwilling to sway to a rhyme. Lost in a barren desert of words, With each grain of thought Looking so similar, lacking uniqueness, I set aside my empty new canvas, Which I had kept ready for re-entering. Until the artist in me comes up With a new configuration of colors Let it rest in the drawer of my shelf.