…and, you are ?

What are you?
A drop of ink.
Nothing more nothing real.
A stain, on painter’s shirt;
The slow movement of his brush
on that white spread sheet,
his feelings
that can’t be felt
his boiling blood
with which he paints,
his memories which he forgot
his life, at which he cried!

What are you?
A meaningless word.
The love of a poet
what he feels, what he shows!
His shaking hands,
his whole life put down
to build you, create you
trying to give you
a beautiful life.
His eyes, with which he grasps
that which can’t be touched,
his whole world, his whole life!

What are you?
An unshaped shape.
The soul of a sculptor
engraved, on a soulless shape!
His deformed body
his, out of this world brain
the movements of his hands
as he touches you, everywhere!
The way how he sees things
how he wants them to be
everything he imagined
on you,  for eternity!

What are you?
A fleeting sound.
The breath of a singer
his voice, his screaming lungs!
A tune that surrounds him
his legs that wont stop,
the blood on his body
his butterflies.
The notes he gives
to everyone around
a beautiful symphony,
another lame song!

What are you?
A simple number.
Chosen from a single page
you are like no one,
but you’re just like any other!
So different, so dignified
so special you look
when seen from outside.
But, you are nothing,
seen from a scientist’s mind
just another line,
scribbled, over another line!

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17 thoughts on “…and, you are ?

  1. “What are you?
    An unshaped shape”

    I respond to this image (with the sculptor) with great delight- I find comfort in the image of being shaped and reshaped…made, melted, and made again…al resurrection of my “what’…always renewed…

    And yes, it is all just a matter of perception, isn’t it? .

    • Yeah, it all depends from our point of view. But i have come into a conclusion, that we sculptors, writers, musicians, painters etc, try to fill the holes in our chests with the delusion of giving life, creating. While in fact we are just imitators, lowly imitators!

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