Rolling in ecstasy in the pale white clouds.

Fluid lines connects the fragmented space
Rosy globules taking things out,
Lunge across the fields of yellow and ochre

Form, colour or line; which is real?

Whisper a tune of the old melody
It floats and rushes towards a void,
Script the message of tragedy and triumph.

Marks and colour resounding the soul.

The power of the nature quietly ignores
All the pop and plenitudes of city life.
Men, women like matchstick, mothballs.

Orange red setting sun leaves a deep scar.

The emptiness reflects nothing but downside
We get little senses beyond the absurdity
Blow conch shells in a chorus to dispel fears.

Dig deeper, we lose a part of our humanity.