Eye of the beholder.

If you are a piece of art,
Which you are,
Carefully moulded and crafted,
Every bit worth observation,
Little more deeper then the depths,
A lot more than the most,

And if the masters work is actually alive,
Like you are,

What is that you would seek the most?
Which you do,
Eyes of the looker,
The smiles of the seer,
One moment of connectivity,


The looker is of course not a piece of art,
Which you are,
He is just as all are,
He does not deserve a reciprocating ecstasy,
He has but one quality,
To have recognised yours,

He is what makes you alive,
He would perhaps get scared if Mona Lisa was to actually smile,
If all of Picasso’s horses were to neigh and all of Vincent’s sunflowers moved with the sun.

My eyes, that lay in the sockets of my deformed skull,
This covered with dead skin,
Stands on a body shapeless,
But still, I have the eyes to admire your beauty, innate and ulterior.

I do not deserve similar feelings or observations,
But still my eyes are the purpose of your existence.
Just look deep, deeper than the similar depth I sought and found.
You see, Mona lisa did smile at me,
The master did recognise me.