They are objects
Of no importance
In our lives
Often carelessly scattered
Ominous
Over ripe
Crinkled
Left
For somebody else
To pick up
But he takes them
To centre stage
On big canvases
With lots of colours
And no filter
Even sewn up wounds
Shine
Beyond the ordinary
Everyday decadence
They become parts
In our stories
Like memories of past
Or future lives
Like they have not been
Before
He saw them
This way
And let us see them
Too