Sitting quietly behind,

My bundles of imagination, 

Stays silent, withered, buried,

Hides my unfinished creation, 

Waiting, tolerating so apparently,

For the incrustations to be turned,

Curious but patiently noticing,

All my thoughts getting churned,

Wondering why I'm left incomplete,

Left alone murmuring complaints in a void 

Wandering, roaming isolated

In the streets like a portrait paranoid .......