Beauty Of Art

Art is a poetry itself

Incompletely complete 

For the pen becomes a myth

When the brush can fleet

It speaks of colours 

Of the beauty it depicts 

Texture gives them voice

Even happy speaks the afflict

It's the words left unspoken 

That the artist yokes

It's the void that resides

Behind the colourful strokes

It's a wonderful poem

Deep down within 

That rarely some respects

Words I dedicate therein