Paper is reservoir of mind,

Pen is flying imagery to draw on it.

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Light flows to,

With hue of colors;

Whisper bows to,

For lust of kiss;

Breezes softly blow,

buds stealthily sprout;

flame quietly glows,

star sparsely stipples...

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A feather, pure and light,

dancing in the wind,

An angel stands in front of me,

unfolds her wings,

I hand it in to you,

Waiting…

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To see a rose blushing on your face,

To feel a dream descending upon your palm;

and the moment

forever adoring.