Vulgar Christ

There stands the Man in portraiture sublime,
defined by someone more concerned with light,
like some poor poet more concerned with rhyme,
like Simon’s hand was more concerned with sleight.
It’s not the truth, which means it is a lie,
a lie that’s frozen fast, then mass produced.
A labor sure to catch the passing eye,
and yet it’s forced, a labor that’s induced.
There stands a man in reverie, in doubt,
who sees and yet he doesn’t see it all.
Subliminal, he feels the portrait’s drought,
reveals the blankness covering the wall.
And so he leaves; and so the wall remains
with nothing but the nothing it contains.

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