Pallete
Some paintings remain unfinished—not for lack of colour, but for lack of answers.
A silent year old, yet I stare,
With the mystery I still bear;
Of all the strokes I brushed,
Which made you go hushed?
For my eyes hear no any hue,
So our paints halt into a due.
A silent year old yet I stare,
At the palette then you were.
For yet invisible you blend.
So a painting we lose, friend.
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