Fade
fade
My photographs, he thinks, are merely scratches
on the back of the beast.
Behind a fractured lens, the
photographer is weeping.
For many years he has focused on Hell.
Hell, in all its magnificence, in all its savage, burning contrasts.
But,
he has also
felt the light, his
light, slowly
fade from
within.
Then.
There was a balance, there was relief: A calm.
Before, and after, the storm.
Now.
A darkness is gathering that seems to feed
upon itself.
And his pictures,
always blurred and cold,
cannot even promise the presence of the sun.
Copyright © Michael Rollins | Year Posted 2016
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