Not All Paint-brush Earn A Place To Be His Artist!

There's this unsung song in my heart.... That I've carried for long.... Thinking I shall offer it at my Beloveds feet! But! Maybe my offering was salty... For my pain...must have slipped through the pores of my skin As on this Christmas Day! Why would Hope of his child Shatter & fade... Maybe my note wasn't sweet enough....And got muddled in life's bitter ways.... For...by now....he would have surely Stretched out his palm... And Opened all doors... That have been closed for long.... As then...I would be born... Anew As His Song! But maybe...It was never meant to be...Maybe....I've not earned this place near his lotus-feet! Hence all these years....this Paint-brush...laid buried in time... For life took away its soft edges, Ruffling; making it unfit...to be offered at Beloveds-shrine Maybe...Not all brushes...earn that place...To serve as His Artist! And some broken ones lay... Dead...buried in their dreams... That too have been burnt down to ashes! . Copyright: Meghna/2018