Ship

This is not a ship. This is a wound, patched over with grey sky. It doesn’t sail — it sinks into its own memory. Every drip is a trace of those who never returned. Every crack — a forgotten name. You see a silhouette, but inside it — a void. A void between who we dreamed of becoming and who we became. This is not painting. It’s the decomposition of hope, covered by a thin layer of beautiful lies. And as you watch — the ship keeps sinking. Silently. Inside you. YAZƏM is when you realize: nothing is sailing anymore, but you still keep looking at the horizon.