By Jiya Bhatt
Chasing the bare minimum,
With a brain like graffiti.
Vandalised by wicked thoughts,
Guilt, regret, and pity.
Oh to seek that contentment,
To seek a place that's more than,
Just four walls and a ceiling,
To get rid of the hollow and angsty feeling.
Unaware of the curse,
She gets herself a canvas.
With an attempt to transfer the stain,
She picks up her brush,
And dances.
The ceiling turns all white,
And the walls start to heal,
While the canvas turns scarlet,
With the paint of delusion and bleed.
With each stroke she moved closer,
To a fleeting sense of peace.
But the canvas hid the warning,
The promise of release.
Little did she know,
About the curse and its intent.
The music stops,
And the brush breaks,
Right before the final stroke blends.