Our lives are art galleries.
We hang our history in tapestries on the walls.
Some call it creativity.
A pot of paint thrown amounts to nothing at all.
Abstract lines will always pique interest,
along with golden frames.
Yet, no one stops to gaze at or admire our pain.
They only see the treasured artefacts we choose to display.
And when our bones crumble with old age, we will
no longer be priceless works of art,
only ancient relics to store in a jar.
Copyright © 2024 Maggie Watson
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