A blank canvas,
lay still in his mind.
A dark alley
yet to be explored.
The guitar called him, to sing to him.
As if the notes mumbled,
Whispering secrets to him.
Paint brushes kept dry for a while,
thinking they had gone worthless and docile.
Through starry ramifications,
he dealt his life with…
Food was yet to be sprinkled with some herbsâ€¦
the words crept out of himâ€¦
â€œWhat are dreams made of?â€
PS: I would love to see your interpretations of dreams in the comments 🙂
I wish to write a series out of this…
YOUR FEEDBACK WILL BE MUCH APPRECIATED …