You were never jaded
Never worn down
Or torn after all these years
Artwork standing intact
Workmanship like you is slowly fading extinct
Ever since sixteen candles decorated your cake
You’ve reminded me of the Sistine Chapel
You were pristine battles where bullets of sweat and paint landed exactly where they were meant to.
Finding a frame to match is humanly impossible,
So your figure is Gods doing.
And nothing this breathtaking should be stationary.
Which is why you’re never content.