The Photographer

Snapshots of memories flashes in the mind,
As if newly taken from the lenses of the heart,
Smile, tears, laughter -- all wrapped into one,
How did it all begin when I'm left now with none.

The colour is fading - washed away by the drizzles of liquor,
Intoxication left unattended loses its essence,
Can the texture be immortalized and forever be remembered?
How can it be, when all that's left is but remnants of ember.

The frame of the picture is decaying slightly away,
It stands no more on that wooden coffee table,
The fragmented frailty of time cannot be reversed,
All it does is to look upon the future of which it athirst.

The photographer fiddles his tool searching for his niche,
But his earthly being could find none to which he befits,
He stares into the distance - uninspired and in despair,
There must be more than this, all this vanity fair.

Then a man walks by and taps his back,
He takes the tool and stands in the gap,
The Man became the artist and he the object,
He snaps a shot and in it, made all things perfect.

Within the kaleidoscope of his eclectic sentiments,
He kept the futile present yet made him the very absence,
But forthwith, a clean roll of film has been replaced,
O, how the sins of his time has now been made effaced!

Beyond the horizon lies a new perspective,
One taken from a perculiar angle seen only from above,
The ephemeral joys of each moment last for a day,
But in His arms of eternal love forever I can lay.