Upon looking at Renoir's Gypsy Girl

If you and me and all else agree
That paint has purpose more to serve;
And if hands should paint despite the Past -
Will it change the fact that paint with Him
Has outlived it's purpose?

To, The Lighthouse

It's been a long night
I haven't seen the sun rise
For sometime now
Nor have I adapted to the dark
And if I am to sleep
I always need the light bulb on
But I can't do that anymore
For I've stopped paying my bills.
So I light a match
To find water in my lamp
But a little oil from fore
Surfaces into flame.

The Branch That Might Have Grown Full Straight

O to end a thing so beautiful, O to exhaust the infinite
O to bolt the doors on a summer day and to close the windows too
O to resign to the unprolific and to be at peace
O to watch the sun set and to remain alive
O to draw the curtains and break the illusion and to call it an interval
O to read the final chapter and to live with it
O unpronounced O to drink the rivers dry
O to lose an argument with the winter wind and to submit to the end
O to outlive the lilies in the dooryard
O to abandon the pursuit of the horizon
O to think O to force the hand of fate to any end
In accordance with the mind O toothless logic
O to kill the fledgling in the nest
O to cheat oneself with reasons and to hush the pangs of the heart
O to lock within one’s chest something as complex as love
O to be a man and to lack the gall
O to wish only and dream of the unimprovable –
I would that we were two butterflies that lived three summer days.

P.S. This one is in imitation of Whitman (who has been the central influence in all my endeavours lately)