In the sizzling summer, I find a comfort zone,
To the pen, the paper, closed room, all alone,
Where I drink mystic elixir of desire and dreary,
Where my thirsty soul can run wild with its symphonies.

I rush with a brush in my mind, then scribble,
Thousand stuffs jostle in, sudden and dribble,
I sketch a mirror of my mind with no vigilance,
A thousand thoughts confine into lines at a glance.

There the journey starts, to get familiar with me,
Exploring beneath the veil what else is left to see,
The moon crosses the sky, I pass a tipsy time,
Picturing my sterling shades in black and white,
Having my whimsical yarns in hand, I entwine,
My pen weaves a tapestry of versatile design.
Need to run my needle swiftly, but gauche tailor am I,
Each prick of my needle makes the artwork more divine.

In my scribbles, I can see the best reflection of me,
And my enveloped musings, that builds up a pedigree,
To a dewy lane, that strays straight to my evasive den,
Where lives a naive girl in her perennial wonderland.

I roam to and fro, walking an extra mile,
Something inside her may left undefined,
Lot to see beneath, though feels like a barren wreath,
Still chase recklessly to trace what blinks underneath,
I turn the page, run the pen, and whisper, who is she?
Strive to extract her through epics, herself is mystery!