The Camera As a Weapon

A moth to the heart of the light, flamed A memory semi-precious, almost alive A random arced flight of a bullet not aimed A gymnastic crimson misted dusty dive. An event striking elsewhere, a country un-named His memories stop, awards to come; cease, Mass shock, horror, and politics blamed Kind words at his funeral, sandwiches and teas. His very last printed picture has a small hole in it, Then something red… Then nothing... but useless, unfocused, light. ( Based on an event where a photo-journalist that I knew, was killed in a war )