Thinkers

By Maria Paul

I’m tempted to be one with the art I make,

To be lost in a world of words and not come back.

Hunting meanings of even the simplest of things,

Thinking of flowers and rivers for hours and hours.

All the pointless smiles at a ray of sunshine,

Feeling my heart weighing like a dandelion,

An escape to the world veiled to the normal eye.

The world sustained by the stream of thoughts,

Edging arrows, finding life from the lifeless of things.

The mastery of unveiling dimensions of grasps,

Treasuring perceptions, the doors of insights.

The poets, the thinkers, the blessed of all mankind,

Living with sights so sharp yet blurred at once,

Seeing the beauty through the imperfections,

Live eternally in every passing moment,

Leaving traces of enchantment in the words they jot.

By Maria Paul