In the mirror, I see art.

My dark hair curls, accentuates,
crafting my royal cheeks, smooth,
against my olive skin.

My figure, curved, full,
like the sands of time; slowly,
crafting my shape in splendor.

My eyes, a rich coffee brown,
earthquakes thrive; shatter,
resonate in my gaze.

Yet...the painting becomes forgotten,
the frame tilts with the pull of Earth,
worn hands fail to paint.

When I walk, they perceive me.
Am I as beautifully crafted as a Renoir? Or as scattered as a *******?

Each stare a different audience, another sketch, a frame lost in the viewer's eye.

But my thoughts are forever,
burdened only by another's dream,
ideas stirred, juxtaposed with my own;
an artist's piece at odds.

The colors smear, lines smudge, but yet my eyes always see the beauty. Do you?