Success seemed not too far and creativity shone,
Colours spilled in regular streams and were filled into the cone.
They showered the canvas and brought it to life,
But, this happiness wasn't to last.
The bunch of Sunflowers blooming yellow bright,
Had seemed so real that starry night,
The pitcher that held them all so close,
Sat at the table as though striking a pose,
And then it was time to hang it on the wall,
The artist's heart missed a call.
A call reminding her of an evil eye,
An individual she had respected would betray her, aye,
A bagful of hurt that would leave behind a scar,
In a life that was marred with others dreams and power.
She wasn't aware of the game that was played,
A swarming of peers, a rough environment was made,
'She has to be stopped from going ahead', they said.
They tugged so hard, her enthusiasm fled
Her self respect was nailed and they tore her heart,
Flesh and blood stains - they ripped her apart.
Three years of slumber, her passion died.
Her brushes lay unattended in the corner - piled.
The colours had lost their sheen and glaze,
Only time would heal her wounds and set the heart ablaze.
Again,
the colours would flow with the strokes,
The canvas with sunflowers would sway,
black, white, red, blue, green, yellow,
The colours on the canvas - another show.
