Sad as I am,
I dangle on the wall of life,
an uncompleted painting,
with a blurry image
and no real meaning.

You, just a looker
as many others,
you pretend to have eyes for me
but you move on,
to another art gallery,
where you hope to find,
the image that speaks to you,
that describes you
and gets you off
from the chair of waiting.

Awry and without frame,
I’m still praying for a true beholder
to complete me
and hang me in his room
as trophy of life
as a present of the future.

Until then, I still remain
the strange creation
without a name, without a message,
of the unknown hand
of which I always wonder...