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?