He was a wonder to behold.
Artists clambered to draw him—paint him—photograph him.
Lovers fought for his time.
He had no rivals; one can’t compete with beauty itself.
But sunrises have sunsets.
Creases emerged.
His skin began to sag.
As his beauty drifted, so, too, did all the doting eyes.
Desperate, he had himself filled and sucked, nipped and tucked.
“Scary” “grotesque” “caricature” they whisper.
Behind his window, in darkness, he watches the real freaks chase the next sunrise.
