Christ hides in the gilded pride 

on the petals of a shallow bough.

Tacit peace falls on the sullen,

those who peering and manful remain 

on the cusp of form at canvas’ edge.

 

I could never take to bended knee

in the shadow of altered form

no poise in kind only painted pageant.

 

You fall short of a whole god

Piteous in mincing measured marvel

Feigned grace flecks away 

And you are more mortal than I the bleeding

 

Oh, fleeting moment.

Free the frail

That they may one day

be, in a natural sort of conclusion.