In the Budding.

              A skeleton sketch is all I need
         To make my painter's brush yield;
         My old pieces of chalk
         Are dumped decently in trash cans.
         They are the restive reminders
         Of a rummaging career called for a finish.
         Aesthetic cells installed in my nerves,
         Caused knotty Narcissus twists
         Nudging now and then a creative verve.
         My paternal Parker is prompting me
         To draw fake lines fabricating those of Keats.
         The sin of committing a double disgrace
         To the Muse and Memory's monumental lines,
         Will become the Deadly, irredeemable eight.
         Still I long to own at least a one time skeleton sketch.
         One with a classic stroke of Rembrandt's renown,
         That will imbibe Madonna like mystery for a making.
         My brush at this thought,
         Would betray the blush of a veiled bride .
                                                P.Chandrasekaran.