a complex, sad life

A blank face hangs on the wall. It wonders if it will be given life or have it snatched away in a smear of color. Its bare expression cries out "claim me, I'm lonely!" No one answers its pleas. Every night it chokes on chemicals trying to destroy remnants of a past life. A seemingly natural object, a number of leaves, rests atop the pathetic pallet, but they are no more real than the paperback book which tarnishes its form. With each day it is born anew, but with each day it shall be murdered in less time than it took to create. A futile cycle of life, unbeknownst by any, is its sole existence.