I would like you to admit that you are full of flaws like an eighteenth century painting. The cracks of the vintage colors defect your perfection.
Some might see a corpse that is frozen in time in the painting, and some might see the radiance shining through the eyes of a man standing whose life was paused for a while to be painted. Your posture tells both the stories of a warrior who was defeated, and a hero who wears an eternal medal. And somewhere in that frozen minute, the words of a poet are exploding rapidly through silence, reaching us.
The combination of colors of the brush strokes might not be very flattering. And the green field that rests beneath your feet isn’t so green, and the withered cane in your hand is not as fierce as it seems.
I would like you to admit that, in spite of your flaws, you are as magnificent as an eighteenth century painting, and the cracks and flaws of the final artwork of yourself are what help the diamonds undress to reveal the sparkles of your skin. And that in the pauses of your life, your grace is painted somewhere by an astral artist to be timeless.
Only those who admire the light of the moon regardless of its craters, and sing for the stars of the night rather than beg its shadows for mercy, can understand the combination of your colors and the complications of your embedded expressions.
Like an eighteenth century painting, that is what I see. Oh how I wish you know that the flaws of your being complete your perfection.
© 2013 ALIA SULTAN