I cannot speak for the cache of blood
Behind my throat and voice
I cannot breathe for the hissing flood
Of death within my flesh.
I am covered now in slate, and bitterness, and sin
I rip with ragged nails at all the ways I’m imprisoned
Ice chips, with frost, have covered all
The life I used to live.
Please set me free with fire; I
Where now I petrify.
Blurry pictures are the greatest
Formed in laughter and breathing moments
Unintended to be captured
They are the realest
Of all our painted, winged smiles and chipped egos…
They show the paths down which we wander
They are the ones who knew us then;
They alone will always know.
There is a reason photographers
Try to make us laugh.
To capture a moment
Of eyes lined with smiles
And lips upward bent.
There is a purpose behind the haunting quality
Of photographs in motion
Of men plummeting from buildings
With their silence intact
Their last moments a smear of black
On photo paper that is still
It flows with movement trying to escape, to leave;
Yes, it is still