JESUS IN ARMANI

He walked down Seventh Avenue
in a suit the color of storm-light,
Armani stitching holding together
what the world once nailed apart.

No halo—
only the low ember of a man
who has watched every century
try to erase him.

People stared
the way sheep stare at thunder,
uncertain whether to scatter
or kneel.

He did not speak.
He did not lift a hand
to bless or curse or gather.
He only walked—
sandals traded for leather,
robe traded for silk,
the same heart beating beneath.

As he passed
the glass cathedrals of want,
mannequins bowed
in their frozen hunger,
mirrors shivered,
recognizing their own reflection
in his quiet contempt.

A woman selling roses
felt her breath snag
on an old wound.
She offered one,
thorned and trembling.
He took it
the way only the ancient take anything—
with sorrow enough
to swallow empires
and mercy enough
to refuse the feast.
Some said model.
Some said ghost.
Some said madman
too expensive to ignore.

But the air bent around him
like light around a wound,
and the city—
dressed in its bright, glittering sins—
did what cities do:
it looked,
it lingered,
it forgot.
No sermon.
No miracle.

Just a man in Armani asking, without asking,
“Have you learned nothing?”

:: 12.11.2025 ::