Celluloid

Lights, camera, refraction.
Cheap jewels upon your powdered flesh,
As the shutters drink you in.

Are you crazy enough to consign yourself,
To mortal memory? To man?
Immortality inscribed on that most volatile of substances?
Celluloid souls, flickering on the silver screen.

Are you devoted enough to the flickering light,
To give yourself to shades,
Of reality cut thin?

But of course it is much more than that.
Imagination, invested within
The minds of masses, like reels of film
Wound tight and then unleashed.

The reflection is worth more than the source,
The lies are more real than reality.
And you can live forever here.

Too short, too tall, too thick, too thin.
Too slouched, too old, too young, too proud.
For the cruel, almighty gaze of the lens,
You must be too perfect.

For there is no room in this world for imperfection.
If they do not know your name,
You have failed. You are dead.

Your soul desired yet ever stolen,
Your words repeated for all time.
All you are, distilled to harshest purity,
In her flickering light.