Sifting through the mangled mundaneness
Of routine and pitiful patterns,
I sought to retain only a divine diversion
To mark the end of a day
Marred by the devoid bleakness of black and white.

In a silent, sun-lit room,
Canvasses monitored the seismic activity
Of boiling multi-colour hot springs of paint
Neatly circled across a white rectangular mountain plain,
Inviting the weary of foot and heart to bathe in its magic mud.

Blue button shirts now rapidly rent
And grey shorts peeled with impatience,
Leaping, I laughed,
Splashing into the mirth of self-expression’s liberty,
Cindering all thoughts of menials awaiting me at the mountain’s foot.

No towel in sight –
Only a pan of brackish water and a protruded paintbrush.
Clenched with a dripping crimson hand, the brush met the canvas
Like a tangoist, the paint nearly scalding the board.
Hopping from pool to pool, tango practice concluded with the abstract.