Hanging in the Gallery

Is it the painter or the picture hanging in the gallery?
Admired by countless thousands who attempt to read the secrets
Of his vision of his very soul.
Is it the painter or the picture hanging in the gallery?
Or is it but a still life of his own interpretation
Of the way that God has made us in the image of His eye?
Is it the sculptor or the sculpture standing in the gallery?
Touched by fleeting strangers who desire to feel the strength of hands
That realised a form of life.
Is it the sculptor or the sculpture standing in the gallery?
Or is it but the tenderness with which his hands were guided?
To discard the unessentials and reveal the perfect truth?
Is it the actor or the drama playing to the gallery?
Heard in every corner of the theatre of cruelty
That masks the humour in his speech.
Is it the actor or the drama playing to the gallery?
Or is it but the character of any single member of The audience that forms the plot of each and every play?
Is it the singer or his likeness hanging in the gallery?
Tongue black, still and swollen, his eyes staring from their sockets
He is silent now, will sing no more.
Is it the singer or his likeness hanging in the gallery?
Or is it but his conscience, insecurity, and loneliness
When destiny becomes at last the cause of his demise?