If only I were a painting;
a majestic work of art,
adored by all,
confined to the safety
of my canvas home.

If only my form
were a mass of oil shades;
intertwining, swirling, rippling.
My, how everyone would swoon
at my brilliance.

But, I tell a sad story.
And the critics prey
upon my light,
when a slight darkness
remains.

Like gold to a magpie,
they pick,
for my dazzling
and beguiling radiance
is too much an invitation,
when all I glow
highlights my worn edges.

My shadowy past
comes to the fore,
and I cannot retreat
into my home,
when there is none.
Everyone stares.
And I’m now careful
of my wishes.