Peonies

I see a melancholic painting 
I imagine the paint brush crying hundred color tonalities over that canvas 
and I crave to be that sad beauty. 
I want to be hung there and keep catching the attention of those people 
stopping by, admiring me, 
without them to even realize the sorrow 
and the obscure weight 
of those colorful tears.

They'll never see it. They'll never know it.

Then I see a bouquet of peonies in a trash can, 
emblem of an ended love 
awake nights
empty glasses of wine,
and I suddenly want to be that unnoticed beauty, 
smelling of forgotten passion and delusion.

How many flowers will be sacrificed for an unrequited love? 
How many paintings
sculptures
poems
syllables 
and even eyes,
which often, too often, are better than
any artwork ever created in the whole history,
will secretly carry the weight
of never being 
understood
and loved 
for what they really are?