Small Town Voyeur

Through a lens,

nothing but a small town voyeur.

An inclement, practitioner, seeking a cure.

If raw or edgy could suffice.

I suppose there would be a way to sleep away the night.

Indeed it is the dark side of an allergy that watches for more.

Mine is not a sexual exercise.

Mine is being witness to the other side.

The soil.

The soot.

The broken down by time.

Mine is baring witness to unwritten signs.

the Old Man

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Not a people person
His photos always that way.
Thus, the beginning of trite and new…
And, admiring life on display.

‘You are just like your old Man.’
Well, maybe that had been so.
Yet, I did, as always, as told.

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‘There is clutter all around us,’ I would say.

Or, so I thought.

Looking for praise.

Seeking love.

And, love…just cannot be sought.

I had such an infantile belief in something risen.

The old Man raised me on what was bought.

What a narrative.

Encased in the woods.

As I have always wanted to be.

The difference being.

He chose to follow the conformity of a covered bridge.

While I choose the shadiness of a fallen tree.

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