I see young men,
Faces perfect in the screen’s glow,
Harvesting fame like digital grain—
Millions of hearts for a fabricated smile.
Their beauty: a simple, quick currency.
But my efforts of creation
Remain a slow burn,
Their depths, not caught
By the fleeting glance.
It asks for more
Than a superficial studio light.
For art is beauty—
But beauty, these days, is rarely art.
James Gale 
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