Few lines

There was a man, name forgotten,
Wrote poetry, small ripples, in steadfast water.
Trying to adjust to coercive life, dementing him, to unknown quarters.
Describing life, as it is, often imparting strange character.
Fluorescent colours, painted or scattered, on a previous white sheet of paper.
Like tendrils, gripper for support, yet gatherer of food, from that very provider:

I would often walk by him, peeping in to his white canvas,
Painting writing, creating cursing, smoking rings of brown leaf-grass.
Lines on face, and its shadows, feather on the cap, slowly agitating,
Against the rustle, that is the wind, through the wood, slowly whistling,
Dropping his coffee mug, I would sit down, beside or behind, not to be noticed,
A drop of dew, a few words, callous or intended, to a mind famished.
That's all it is, a thrown away smile, without a grimace, even on dry skin,
The winter brings that, to the astray, showing no tooth, the old man laughing.

Such agile life is, but smokes on the sky, and always the clouds,
Never a rainbow, nor a raindrop, a grasshopper flying over the mounds.
Suddenly someday, old hand gripping, papery skin of old man walking,
A hop and start, going wayward, with the wind, goes rainbow hunting