THE HUMAN GALLERY

  

 

We are Creator and Creation
Both the artist and his art
Our first, lush days painted like frescos
Into flesh still wet and new
Sometimes Botticelli, sometimes Bosch
Swirling fusions of shapes and hues
Ever and always a work in progress   
                        
We are tattooed by mistakes   
False starts and regrets
The burned skin then displayed to all
Equally revered and reviled
By the circumspect eyes of patrons and critics
So achingly beautiful, so grievously lacking
Paradoxical and juxtaposed
                         
I stare at the easeled mirror
A reflection of my handiwork
Itself balanced precariously on a pedestal                                                    
Earnestly carved of self-mined marble
Transfixed by the veins, I chiseled deeply
Bloodied my hands and rendered the column
All in the name of articulation
                       
The human gallery is a carnival, a spectacle
Strewn end-to-end with masterworks
Each piece an opus, every creation a rhapsody
Yet one by one, they crash to the ground
Knocked from their underpinnings
By hecklers, by vandals, by fellow artists
Imperfections and faults exposed
                       
Yet despite motive, hunch, or vision
No matter the inspiration
There is one great equalizer:

Humanity.

We are given charge of a subtle palette
Then, tempered by our sameness
Must bravely reach toward exaltation

~lisa

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