With only seventeen sunflowers in my garden still I sit here writing about life but my pen seems repellent towards those sullen pages and moves to an old, blank canvas, starts with a vacuous stroke to give a monochromatic shade of green and narrate tales of these flowers.
Four sunflowers were blooming in a beeline but as the fifth one bloomed a stroke of black(fear) was added 'cause during its realm, a soft, nascent hand slipped off her parents' fingers, in the turmoil of the streets but she was blessed with good luck and this time holded the hands tightly along with the fear of being left alone.
The fourteenth sunflower seemed sanguine a stroke of yellow(hope) was added and green was fading but when was life prosaic and without some piquant? when this slender figure, rose upto a great height on tawny hills, above clouds for trekking what if my legs would have slipped, followed by an earthward plummet I swear, this time I felt close to you, to death.
The graph of this journey is affluent with ups and downs, petrichors were always pleasant, until they turned into storms, but 'I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship' and the canvas of these seventeen sunflowers is exuberant with variegate shades except grey and with remnants of each downfall.