by Dane Campbell
Brandishing your burnished scars,
you have made art of your pain,
carved soft features
into the hard face of that jagged rock.
Envisaging the rigid pliable,
palatable, relatable, etc.,
you have made bright those dark ruins,
planted stars among the starless trees
whose bare limbs you paint
with verdant saints of martyred leaves.
Such artifice renders warm the winter scene,
a manufactured summer
behind a polished wall of glass.
Real or not, I have grown to crave it,
for years, have cultured,
against good reason and best interest,
this acquired taste.
And so once more,
museum-goer that I am,
torn ticket in pocket,
bounded by silence,
at your exhibit,
take care not to disquiet
the delicate etiquette—
I was born to observe, not to breach.
Posted on 08/06/2017
Copyright © 2017 Dane Campbell