A Lost Paint Brush

A camera and lenses from Nepal
died in the corner shelf of his color room.
Miniature black and white copies of
Leh deserts, Kashmir jungles
sighed in the black old albums,
with a bearded drunken man
sweating out to death.

The candle post cards from Japan
burnt in the cupboard on the deck.
The white bone china, the fine glass
that served the master's life style
paled quietly in the meshed showcase,
with a little girl's sculpture
withering out in the rain.

The oil paint tubes bought in poverty
dried up in the wooden box under the bed.
The colored canvass, the brown nudes
that poured out of the master's brush
aged with time and dust,
with a paint brush's bristle
shedding like a woman's hair.

This is what happened
and not the marauding loot
hopes the man.
....A paint brush was lost
and not vandalized,
hopes the man whose artistic soul
was murdered, back home.

PS: Dedicated to Dad