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.
Teacher,
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.
Yet,
a guild full of
artistic misconduct.
