Her hands unravel her pencil
Her mood slates its course
Her shivers design the outlay
The filling decided by her force

With her, through times gay and saint
Winged, thick or thin
With her, through times hard and faint
Unmatched, diluted or brimming

Her eyes wake up to the morn
Her eyes, to her kohl
In black and hues aplenty
And her kohl, to her soul

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s