He had an eye for these things.
But I had the soul.
The art of the moment, wasted with lies.
With all the chatter of aperture and metered light.
Exposures in a dark room.
You, looking for that idyllic covered bridge.
Me, searching for meaning to the words, ‘just live.’
As your dark room comes into contrast with my life.
The question still remains,
‘what of the devil you tried to tame?’
With a generation, come and gone,
I will right your wrong.
with all your attempts to school me…
All your photographed Rockwell ideology…
The shuttering speed of Americana.
All this and more, such great expectations.
Not a single tutored self-portrait.
a guild full of