Your boredom and urgent thirst were real, once
The cold room and precarious platform
Were as worrisome as his annoyed grunts
As he coaxed marble to ape your pale form
Through her hoop, the dancer studied your nape
As four masks laughed at his posterior
He ignored content to study the shape
To him, the inside was inferior
A painting of a sculpture of someone
Is thrice removed from throbbing, worried life
Traces of what you felt, there may be none
You could have been a stranger, or his wife
Art imitating imitation's art
Simulacrum of surface, not of heart
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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