When paint meets
A blank canvas,
It is a mansion
With a ceiling
That meets the clouds
It is a stroll through
Corridors, with
A thousand doors
It is a palette
To satisfy the appetite of all the Gods
— Tell, what happens to the painter
Who has run out of paint?
Colour drained from his face
Trickles to his palm
Where no man is just man
No breath, no stroke, his last
When will meets
A blank canvas
It is a mansion
With a ceiling
That meets the clouds
It is a stroll through
Corridors, with
A thousand doors
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