Posthumously

Did you miss me today?

You wrote with sadness, the ink red,

Do you remember the last time when we spoke?

We were alone in a crowd,

Our eyes spelt what the weather portrayed,

Downcast, clouds a little heavy with rain.

.

Where is the value in artistic talents?

Well, there was once a street urchin,

Whose strokes brought barely a glance from passers-by,

He did think his work princely, though,

And, never did stray from his daily pursuits.

.

He never did sell a work of his art,

Until one day, he left this world for another,

His princely art, showcased as legacy of his good breeding.

.

And, the world?

It knew, it had lost a man of brilliance to ignorance and disregard,

Now, standing in awe, awarding him prestige,

Honor he had never received when alive,

Would there be regret? Of course, on every lips,

Too late, as he had died, a pauper,

He can neither see or hear “appreciation.”

-shobana-

Take a chance and read my book. It is a beautiful story about healing and hope.

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