dancing
imitating
mocking

We dance through the atmosphere
of imitation.

Imitating,

I am not the only one
who got this feeling.

Mocking,
you were mocking
when I caught you innocent;
I know, you love me.

Sitting in a bowl of fruit
I hold a flower
Paint me with vivid colors
Make me look pretty
Or possibly as a reverent clown
With big floppy feet
In a contemporary return to classics
For the world to look and ask
"What did the artist mean with that banana, and why is that clown sitting on peaches holding a tulip?"


© 2019 MJL

There's a disconnection,
   because he doesn't know
where the line crosses
from crucification
   to melodrama.
The light plays
   on his face,
mysterious, illuminating,
  and all that,
but you pay attention
  to his wrists,
nailed to the slab
of wood in such a
   way as to incite
divine intervention.
  Cue the angelic choir.
Their voices are not rejoicing,
    though, but divinely wrathful
towards our imitating.