Everyday, every moment there’s something amiss.
A gleam that’s futile, and obscure is bliss.
Pastels and pale, are no more that stale,
reverting to radiance was of no avail.
Rhyming your flute with tune of my anklet;
smitten by the canvas smeared in scarlet,
smudged in the froth of a silent ‘splendid kiss’ !
