Art and love are the same,
words unsaid could be painted,
brush strokes could be soft kisses,
painting a canvas or a life, it’s not so different,
after all, art and love are the same.
In the dim light of a solitary room,
where shadows dance like fleeting memories,
the heart yearns for expression,
each silent whisper, each suppressed sigh,
transformed into strokes of the brush,
as if the canvas could bear the weight of unsaid words.
Oh, how the paint drips with unspoken desire,
every color a fragment of a shattered dream,
each line a pathway to an unseen realm,
where love and art intertwine, inseparable,
reflecting the deepest corners of the soul.
The brush trembles in the hand,
much like a lover’s touch, hesitant yet fervent,
seeking to convey the inexpressible,
to capture the ephemeral essence of a moment,
where time stands still, suspended in a gaze,
a kiss, a touch, an unutterable feeling.
The artist, much like the lover, toils in solitude,
haunted by the specters of what could be,
lost in the labyrinth of longing,
finding solace only in creation,
where every stroke, every hue,
is a testament to the profound connection,
between the heart’s silent song and the world’s silent beauty.
Thus, we paint our lives,
one breath, one touch at a time,
infusing each moment with the colors of our passion,
our fears, our unspoken truths,
for in the end, art and love are the same,
a reflection of our innermost selves,
an eternal dance between the visible and the invisible,
the said and the unsaid.
By Utkarsh Yadav