still life

Blue. A quiet peacefulness.
Old walls, the paint cracked.
She feels comfortable.

The mirror draws her in, as all mirrors do.
What is in the world of the mirror?
Is that who she is?
Is that her world through another’s eyes?

The still life is sad:
dead candle,
dead butterflies,
dying flowers,
detached pears,
empty plates,
a faded lion over it all.

Yet it is beautiful.

The lion and butterflies capture her imagination.

Shimmering blue and silver,
symbols of transformation and freedom,
stuck, lifeless,
pinned in formation,
enclosed in glass,
on display.
Beauty killed to be enjoyed.
Freedom captured.

And the faded lion.

She’s been the still life,
put together peace and beauty for others to enjoy–
but dead.

Yet, hidden in the shadows, she’s a lion–
fierce, roaring,
roaming free and wild,
chasing her tail,
But no one sees.

Visible is only the tranquil beauty:
old marble
plaster imprint
gold in frames
golden wax
golden pears
petals scattered blue, pink, red, and white.
All quiet. All neat. All placed.

There will be no change but aging. Aging and rotting.
There is no potential:
no ground for seed to fall into,
no person to enjoy the fruit,
no hope–
except that the lion come alive and breathe.


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