The Artisan of Thoughts clutches a handful of dust and breathes in life and lo! Begins the creation of thoughts, pure, unpolluted, unbridled and not adulterated by human emotions, expectations and exaggerated oeuvre. He clutches them in his hands and ponders which cerebral cells to permeate. Whose cytoplasm will jell the most with the purity of these golden white silken threads?
He cannot make up his mind and throws them up in the air like an indulgent father throws a child up in the air and catches him back again in the crook of his arms. The Artisan of Thoughts does the same but does not pull them back again but just lets them go.
The thoughts, innocent, innocuous, owner less, thoughts vacillate in air in joyful journey with an unknown destination! The humans pick up their tentacles and catch these thoughts in a random, sporadic, haphazard manner and stow them away in their gray cellular compartments so that these may resurface again scratched, scarred and badgered by notorious pandering.
The Artisan of Thoughts
Breathes in life
Into a handful of dust
And lo! Begins the
Wondrous creation of thoughts
Pure, prosaic, unpampered
Unsolicited thoughts
He throws them in air
With a whispered wish
That they reach their
Fitting abode without a glitch
And do not fall prey to
Aimless snitch
Humans pick up their tentacles high
Grab, grope, grip, gulp these thoughts
Soaring high
And stow them away in
Their cerebral crevice
And when in leisure
Idle and unwise
They mangle, meddle
Muddle, scratch, scar,
Rob, rape, crumple, crush, mar
The virgin beauty of these
Golden white threads
The Artisan of Thoughts sits agape
Doleful, mournful, tearful He sighs
Where are my thoughts
Which I had gifted to the sky!
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