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.

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