A Painting’s Pain

These eyes, painstakingly painted, somehow still stare

Despite the daunting decades that

Taunt me, haunt me

Sketching the cruel concept:

“I could no longer be there

on display,

and with that, I’ll be dead. I’ll fade into the air.”

Though I renounced these notions,

time framed me a new truth:

“Pretty thing, you're already dead. Your gods do not care.

Some deem you pretty and steal mere moments of your day.

Maybe they take a photo, a second-long snapshot.

But most of your idols, they simply walk away.”

I look down at my gods, stricken with what time has said.

Silently, I plead

from my glass screen, “I don’t need your glory, I just want to be seen!”

And silently, they senselessly

shift their interest instead.

No interest in me, or any of my brothers.

And because of this, no interest in each other.