Turquoise Eyes

Every brushstroke of paint got hardened, and all life got dried up.

Only a pathway of awe is left—nothing else.

When irises glide over me, the interpretation changes, but I still cannot move—

being framed like superstition I am a painting on the wall—

a pigment on an aged canvas trapped in the museum halls.

I try to cry and feel, but I cannot if I am just a turquoise reflection without any reactions or reinforcements.

Maybe one day my linen face will peel off, and I will be taken off this wall.

But now, I know who I am—I guess I have never lived in the painting after all.