The Mural

I picked up my brush,

But unaware where my instincts rush.

Fear of the globe,

Seeming to lose my hope.

Fear of skills,

Repetitive to be drilled.

Fear of scorns,

Warning me of thorns.

Having no image,

Just engaging to be envisaged.

Urging my notions,

To sketch out my emotions.

If I could paint,

No matter in vain.

The only image,

To pay my homage.

I asked myself,

And even thyself,

What could I paint?

With no fear of plaint.

Ah! here is it!

Apt to fit in it.

Yes, the mural is what I see,

Agreeing to be with me.

Adding to my thoughts,

Seeming to get caught.

To pay my tribute,

With a hope to contribute.

It’s the mural which I could paint,

No matter what it turns to be, full of stains.

A tribute by painting this mural,

And be a masterpiece to remain as eternal.