Mona Lisa

In the quiet hush of the Louvre, she sits, eternal, framed by time itself. A woman with a gaze that knows, yet reveals nothing. Her smile--a fragile thread woven between certainty and mystery, hovering on the edge of confession, but never crossing over. The landscape behind her shifts, rivers winding like veins, mountains rising like thoughts half-formed in the back of the mind. She is neither here nor there, belonging to no moment, captured yet free, a question painted in layers of light. We search her face for answers, but find only reflections-- of ourselves, of our longing to understand what was never meant to be understood.