beauties of the mundane life

On the sidewalk, a splash of color, a spilled life in purple,

Echoes of laughter or sorrow, maybe both.

Every splatter a story, whispered in the rush of passing shoes.

On the metro walls, graffiti blooms— not just scribbles but screams and dreams,

fingers tracing the pulse of a city which never ceases

to amaze or to ever be- the being.

Where even silence speaks.

Raindrops race on the café window, each trailing a path, divergent, yet destined

Mapping a brief history of storms, a fleeting dance that wets the watcher’s soul too

under bridges, paint dripping off forgotten cans,

colors bleeding into another—a quiet chaos, like thoughts unspoken, merging,

a canvas for the weary who find comfort in shadows.

In alleyways where light seldom treads, waters gather, mingling with oil, creating rainbows on concrete— brief &  brilliant against the grime.

Every mark, every line, a random beauty, crafted without intent, perfect in its own imperfection.

to ones lost, they’re not stains or marks but

symbols larger than life,

wilder than the neatness of neat lines

in these splatters, art living, unplanned,

like wildflowers on disturbed ground

beauty’s place to rest imperfect, it’s moment to be messy

the world as I see it, is a story, ongoing, and we a part of its telling.