The Artist


Smoked a cigarette and sipped some wine,
Restlessly creating a work so fine.
Turned a blank paper into a sketch so still,
Every stroke of lead spoke of skill.

Hands never shook, eyes never blinked,  
Every little detail was correct and distinct.
Filled with colours and shades and lines,
An Artist’s mind it was, hard to define.

On completion the Artist simply got up and left,
Leaving the painting without any fear of theft.
After a while a strange man sat,
At the very place the artist had left.

His face was half hidden as he wore a mask,
He glared at the sketch as he held a flask.
On seeing the work his hand started to shake,
I became curious to know what was at stake.

I got up and asked if he was alright,
He removed his mask and gave up his disguise.
As I saw his face I felt a chill down my spine,
I realised that the Artist was special, was divine.

The sketch was of the man who wore the mask,
A note said, “I don’t know you but I like the flask”…
Who was this Artist, how did this happen?
It was a small bar in the city of Manhattan.

-The Artist




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An engineer who finds joy, comfort and peace by writing poems and strumming chords. Come, let me take you to an alternate reality.

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