Portraits of The Wise Hang by a Thread

 the portraits of the wise

hang by a thread.

try not to look too close
in fear you may be misled.

i painted a picture
a thousand times

till the portrait
started to bleed.

leaking through the canvas,

the hinges
hanging by a thread.

—

i’ve walked through

galleries

of great men.

—

studied

every stroke.

—

the words

they left behind.

the lives

we say

they led.

—

we frame

their finest thoughts

and hang them

above our heads.

—

forgetting

there was

a human being

behind

every canvas.

—

a father

who knew wisdom

and still

failed his son.

—

a teacher

who could guide

a thousand men

and still

lose himself.

—

a philosopher

who understood

the world

and still

misunderstood

the man

inside him.

—

we preserve

their conclusions.

—

not always

the contradictions

that produced them.

—

because wisdom

looks cleaner

when the blood

has dried.

—

so we paint

over it.

—

another coat.

another quote.

another story

about the man

we needed

him to be.

—

until the portrait

becomes wiser

than the person

who posed

for it.

—

then somebody

looks

too close.

—

finds the crack

beneath the paint.

—

the contradiction.

the failure.

the sin.

—

and suddenly

we question

whether the wisdom

was ever

wise.

—

funny.

—

we ask

human beings

to leave us

truth

then punish them

for being human

while finding it.

—

and somehow

i never noticed

the portrait

hanging

above my own head.

—

Mr. Mak.

—

the wise one.

—

the disciplined one.

the discerning one.

the one

who knows better.

—

i painted him

with every lesson

i survived.

—

every revelation

became

another stroke.

—

every piece

another coat.

—

until one day

i looked

too close.

—

jealousy

bled through.

—

insecurity

cracked

the paint.

—

ego

showed beneath

the frame.

—

and behaviours

i thought

belonged

to other men

started appearing

in mine.

—

for a second

i thought

the portrait

was ruined.

—

the man

was never

exactly

who i painted

him to be.

—

but i had made

the same mistake

with myself

that we make

with every

wise man.

—

i confused

what he knew

with everything

he was.

—

wisdom

became perfection.

—

growth

became innocence.

—

self-awareness

became immunity

from being blind.

—

until the man

could no longer

fit

inside the frame.

—

so let it crack.

—

let the colours

run.

—

let every flaw

bleed

through the canvas.

—

i’d rather

lose

the portrait

than spend

another lifetime

posing

for it.

—

the portraits

of the wise

were always

destined

to hang

by a thread.

—

no portrait

survives

being mistaken

for the man.

—

look close

enough

and the paint

begins

to bleed.

—

closer still—

the frame

disappears.

—

and where

we once hung

a god,

there stands

a human.

— Mr. Mak


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